Her Holt Heart
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series) When the INS comes calling, what will Remington and Laura do?
1. Chapter 1: An Invitation

_**The Alternative Universe Series**_

 _ **Toss the Twilight Zone experience of Season 5 into the proverbial trash can. These stories pick up after Steele of Approval. While Approval still exists, more importantly these stories look at season 4 as most of the viewers saw it - Laura and Remington had crossed that line, imbuing that Season with the "Mr & Mrs Steele" feeling that most experienced. **_

_**To get the most out of my stories, I recommend reading them in the following order:**_

 **Steele Forsaken (Part 1 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)** **  
** **Steele Mending (Part 2 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)** **  
** **A Holt New Beginning (Part 3 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series; Takes place during and after Steele Searching)** **  
** **Holt the Presses (Takes place during and after Steele Blushing)** **  
** **The Holt Truth (Takes place during and after Forged Steele)** **  
** **You've Gotta Know When to Holt 'Em (Takes place during Premium Steele)** **  
** **Holt the Sugar (Takes place during and after Coffee, Tea or Steele)** **  
** **Not So Merry Steele (After Dancer, Prancer, Donner and Steele)** **  
** **Snippets of Steele (Missing scenes from Steele on the Air, Steele Inc, and Steele Spawning)** **  
** **Holting Down the Fort (During Suburban Steele)** **  
** **Steele Admired (During and After Santa Claus is Coming to Steele)** **  
** **Steele Moving Forward (Sensitive Steele)** **  
** **Steele Yours (Steele at Your Service)** **  
** **Her Holt Heart (Pre Beg, Borrow through the end of Season 4 [No Bonds])**

 _ **As usual, I do not own the characters. I simply borrow them.**_

* * *

 _March 27-March 30, 1986_

Chapter 1: An Invitation

Remington woke on Thursday morning, and carefully untangled his legs from Laura's then eased away, so that he might turn on his side and enjoy watching her for a spell, as had become his habit in the last months. She protested his absence in her sleep, and shifted until she found him again, tucking herself back into the curve of his body before sighing softly and returning fully to her dreams. His lips twitched with suppressed laughter and he bussed her on the top of the head, bemused to know how annoyed she'd be if she realized she sought him out regularly in her sleep. Not that he wasn't guilty of the same, for nothing could rouse him awake quicker than finding the sheets cool next to him, where her slender body belonged.

It continued to amaze him, that. For a man who'd spent all his adult life departing before the morning after arrived, he'd discovered in recent months that he no longer slept worth a damn when she wasn't next to him. It was his biggest grievance with where their relationship stood now: There were still far too many nights each week when he retired to bed alone. He enjoyed falling asleep with her and waking up to her as much as he did arguing, engaging in a round of rapier wit, and making love with her. But upon their return from the Friedlich Spa he'd promised to be patient, as she worked through the fears and concerns which would inevitably accompany the thought of extending their days and nights together into the work week.

All-in-all, he couldn't complain, as they'd taken enormous strides outside of this one particular area. Earlier this week, after they'd wrapped up the Gray case, she'd simply shocked the hell out him when she'd turned to him as they were watching a movie in his flat and had said…

"Come with me to Bernice's wedding." He must have been a sight, mouth hanging open, eyes agog, in response to the completely unexpected invite. When he recovered his faculties enough to form a coherent thought, he'd swiped at his mouth with his hand while attempting to formulate a response more in keeping with his suave image.

"Uh, Laura…" was what came out instead, not at all what he was aiming for. Amused brown eyes regarded him.

"You _did say_ you wanted our relationship out in the open, among friends and family at least," she reminded him.

"Well, yes, I did, but—"

"And Bernice _is_ one of my closest friends," she pointed out.

"Yes, yes, I know but—"

"Besides, she already knows about us. As a matter of fact, she asked specifically if I was bringing you." She casually dropped this bombshell as though announcing the temperature outside.

"Oh? Might I ask when you told her? I don't recall you making mention of it to me." His own curiosity had been pricked. She shifted slightly next to him, and cast him a tentative look, not at all in keeping with her formidable personality. " _Laura_ …" he drawled her name.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," she protested. Finally, with a scrunch of her nose, she answered, "Since the morning after you sent me that magnum of champagne?" A smile appeared on his face at _that. Dammit,_ she lamented silently, knowing she'd just stroked his considerable ego.

"Ah, impressed you after all, did I?" he asked smugly. She feigned boredom.

"Not really," she deadpanned. "We talked about Kessler and Ness tailing you and I in the limo that evening. The subject of the champagne barely came up at all," she prevaricated, smiling as she recalled how she'd bragged excitedly to Bernice about that very bottle.

"Never give an inch, do you Miss Holt?" he grinned.

"Someone's has to keep you on your toes, Mr. Steele," she retorted with a smile for him. He barked a laugh at that.

"You certainly do that," he complimented. "Now, how much does she know?" Her smile faded and she fidgeted for a long minute, before she turned her head and looked him in the eyes.

"Everything," she shrugged. He pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly.

"Anna? Cannes? London?"

"Everything," she repeated, her eyes continuing to hold his.

"And how long after we arrive until I should expect to be drawn and quartered?" he inquired, only half-joking.

"Actually," she drew out the word, "You might be surprised to know Bernice has been in your corner far more often than not. In fact, a great many things played in your favor because she'd insist I keep things in perspective, to make my decisions based on the present, not the past."

"You're saying, then, that I owe Ms. Wolfe—"

"Fox," she interrupted to correct.

"Ms. Wolfe," he repeated with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "A debt of gratitude."

"You might start with calling her by her real name," she observed, drily. "You're as bad as Daniel and Felicia with their Linda's and Lisa's."

"A man has to take his fun where he might find it," he countered.

"So, will you go with me? To her wedding next weekend?" she asked, returning to the topic of hand.

"I suppose that depends…"

"Oh, on what?" He lifted a brow at her.

"On whether or not Michael's will be there as well." Her peals of laughter floated through the air of the room.

"You'd think after two-and-a-half years, this rivalry would have long been buried," she noted. "You won, not that Murph was ever in the game other than as a friend and partner. Get over it."

"It has nothing to do with our rivalry for your affections, Laura,"he grumbled, "And everything to do with the fact he was constantly in your ear, reminding you of what a 'bum' I am while urging you to send me packing. And I'd wager, he still does the same whenever you speak."

"Even if that were the case, and I'm not saying it is,who cares? You're here, we're here. Isn't that what matters?" she posited. He gave a reluctant shrug of his shoulder, determined to prolong his pout. With a roll of her eyes, a shake of her head and a silent laugh, she rubbed her hand against his chest, then patted it. "If you don't want to go, I understand, although I'd hoped you would. Otherwise I wouldn't have reserved the king suite overlooking Central Park…" she let her words trail off. True to form, he perked right up.

"No separate but equal?" he asked. True, it seemed a silly question to ask given they regularly shared a bed these days, but one could never speculate when her inhibitions or fears might rear their head.

"No hiding, remember?" she asked by way of answer.

Which is how he'd ended up spending Thursday night with her at the loft. Their flight would depart LAX at ten-fifteen, and Fred had already been given instructions to pick them up from Laura's at nine. Which, he confirmed with a glance at the clock, would give him time to shower and make them breakfast before their departure… if he didn't lounge about in bed all morning. He gave her arm a brisk rub, until she hummed her notice she was awake. Bending over, he pressed his lips to her cheek, allowing them to linger a scant second.

"I'm going to shower, then make us a bite to eat before we leave." She nodded her head and flipped over onto her stomach, yelping when a large hand landed squarely against a cheek of her derriere.

"Mr. Steele," she growled. He chuckled unapologetically.

"We've no time to dawdle this morning, Miss Holt. Just doing my part to make sure you're fully awake."

"One of these days," she warned, holding a fist up, her face still buried in her pillow. He grasped that fist, uncurled the fingers, and peppered kisses over her knuckles.

"Ah, but then you'd have to play nurse to my patient, and we both know how much you dislike that," he commented with a laugh as he climbed from the bed.

Following a loud groan into her pillow, she flipped to her back and watched his attractive, pajama bottom clad visage until it disappeared into the bathroom downstairs. Sitting up, she drew her hands through her hair and allowed herself a minute alone with her nerves.

There was no way to honestly deny this was a momentous step forward for the two of them. Her family had been one thing as they'd adored him from the start. She'd merely had to… and would continue to… fend off the questions of future plans. Annoying, to say the least, but somehow less so than the normal 'you'll never catch a man with that attitude, Laura' speeches she'd been subjected to most of her adult life.

But this? She hadn't spoken with Murphy for months, and that conversation had not gone at all well. It had taken place shortly after she and Remington had returned from London. 'I told you so's' had abounded on his part, coupled with any number of variations of 'You were finally rid of the louse' and 'What are you thinking, Laura's'. Rationally, she understood Murphy believed he was looking out for her, acting as the proverbial voice of reason. But his timing had been… poor. After months of suffering throughout endless days and nights of not knowing where Remington was, _how_ he was, now that he was back in LA with her, committed to her… _in her bed_ … she simply wanted to be…

Happy.

She broke out in a wide smile, as she turned her head in the general direction of the bathroom, laughing softly. She listened as Remington sang in the shower, something he'd begun doing out of the blue, a couple weeks before. His pitch wasn't perfect, and he was at times off key, but it was somehow endearing and charming at once, despite the imperfections.

She suspected he had no idea he was either doing it… or could be heard. She could hear him now…

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," a good dose of snobbery infusing his words, "Only a sentimental fool would indulge in such frippery."

Since she enjoyed this unexpected side of him, she never said a word about it, lest she risk it coming to an end. That she simply couldn't help smiling a bit brighter on days when he did it? Well, he hadn't called her on it yet.

She climbed out of bed when the singing ceased and the pit-pat of water in the bathroom stopped. Selecting her brown tweed suit with the ankle length skirt and matching silk shirt, as she went downstairs to prepare for the day ahead, she couldn't help but look forward to this trip with great relish.


	2. Chapter 2: New York

Chapter 2: New York

Remington swirled the cabernet in his wine glass from where he stood leaning against the railing of the sizeable balcony attached to the suite Laura had reserved for them. The suite was… impressive. Accommodations he would have selected for them himself, but the normally sensible Laura would quash the very idea of.

This trip marked a couple of firsts… for himself, as well as they as a couple. Worldwide traveler he might have once been, but he'd never enjoyed the offerings of New York City before. There was a certain familiarity to city in its congestion, reminiscent of his years in London, and he hoped they have time to enjoy opportunities this city offered that LA did not.

As for he and Laura? It was the first trip they'd taken together not only for purely personal reasons, but as a couple. A glorious four days and nights during which part of their time would be consumed by wedding events: dinner this evening; rehearsal dinner tomorrow evening; and the wedding, itself, on Saturday. Part of their time, but not all. He mused over what type of trouble they might get themselves into.

"Are you ready?" Laura asked, from behind him. He turned to face her with a ready smile, his face showing his unconcealed approval as his eyes traveled down her form which the short skirted, long sleeved, sequined dress that clung to her like a second skin did little to conceal. He whistled low.

"Exquisite," he praised, his grin widening as her skin pinkened at the compliment.

"If you like the dress, then you'll love what's underneath," she answered, with a saucy lift of her brows, as she hooked her earring through her lobe. His blood heated at her words, and his imagination took flight. She laughed throatily when he stepped to her, and drew her into his embrace.

"Perhaps a hint, hmmmm?" he suggested. Bending his head down, he captured a pair of willing lips beneath his. His lips teased hers, as a set of long fingers dragged up her silk-clad leg, sneaking beneath the hem of her skirt. He groaned in thorough appreciation when those fingers encountered the top of a stocking, a garter. She slinked from his embrace, leaving him clutching air. "You may well be the death of me, woman," he called to her retreating back. Her lyrical laughter trickled outside as she retrieved her coat from inside.

"Merely giving you something to look forward to, Mr. Steele," she smiled up at him, warm brown eyes glimmering with amusement. Taking her coat, he helped her on with it.

"And that you have, Miss Holt," he complimented, then added, "Although I doubt I'll be capable of intelligent conversation this evening." She laughed softly, then turned and pressed up on her toes to lay a lingering kiss on his lips.

"Shall we, Mr. Steele?" she asked, smoky brown eyes meeting his when their lips parted.

"Let's."

* * *

"Hi, Murph," Laura greeted, drawing out each word in fondness. She brushed her lips against his cheek as they embraced.

"You're looking good, pal," her tall, blonde, former partner greeted in turn.

"We shouldn't let so much time pass again before we all get together," she suggested, patting his arm before stepping back.

"Can you believe it's already been three years?" he remarked.

" _I can_ ," Bernice answered, hugging Laura. "You look _great_ ," she complimented.

"You look happy," Laura countered.

"Steele," Murphy greeted, reluctantly holding out a hand to his former competitor, as the two women spoke. With a forced smile, Remington returned the greeting.

"Michaels," he returned, as he lay a hand on the small of Laura's back when she moved back to his side.

"I am," Bernice confirmed Laura's assessment, reaching for the arm of the man standing silently nearby. "Laura, Murphy… Miles Weill." Miles exchanged handshakes with both, while Remington's eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"Bernie has spoken frequently enough of you over the years, I feel I already know you both."

"And Sk… Remington Steele," Bernice added. Her husband-to-be offered a hand to Remington as well.

"Any relation to Nevil Weill?" Remington wondered, as he released the tall, beefy, pony-tailed man's hand, while drawing a curious eye from Laura.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Steele. It's not very often someone connects me to my grandfather."

"Yes, well, as a connoisseur of art myself, I've a great appreciation of the collection he amassed in his time. Monet's _Dans la Prarie_ and Chardin's _Soap Bubbles_ , alone…"

The two men continued to talk art as the party was led to their table. Laura had only made it a few steps when Murphy's hand reached out and grasped hers. With a look towards Remington, Bernice and Miles's backs, she allowed Murphy to lead her back to the lobby.

"Laura," he drew the word out warningly as he was oft inclined to do. She looked at him questioningly.

"What?" she asked, her chin ticking up a notch, already suspecting where this conversation would lead.

"Come on, pal. You can't possibly think it's just a coincidence that _he_ knows about some obscure art collection and its connection to Bernice's fiancé," he replied in a censorious tone. She yanked her hand from his, and crossing her arms, tipped her chin up another notch, her eyes lit with fire.

"What is it, exactly, you're trying to say Murph?" she asked, a hard edge in her voice.

"If he's trying to get the lay of the land from—"

"Enough," she cut in, firmly. Taking him by the arm, she led him towards a more private spot near an alcove. "You and I both know, Mr. Steele is well-versed in art and why that is. But, yes, I think it's ' _coincidental'_. Before tonight, he knew precisely two things about Bernice's fiancé: He was a saxophone player and from New York."

"Are you actually trying to tell me he didn't know the guy's name?" he protested.

"Believe it or not, he and I don't sit around discussing Bernice's romantic life," she countered in a snotty tone

"Come on, Laura, you're smarter than this. Do you really believe he's not up—" She held up a hand to stop him.

"That's enough," she ordered, wearily. "Murph, I know you care for me…" she nodded her head, and gesticulated with a hand, "That you worry about me. But thishas _to stop_. That man in there has been my partner for _four years_ , has been more than that to me for nearly as long. _Four years_ , Murph. Yes, you and I both once believed he had an angle, that he wouldn't stay. He's not—"

"He _did leave_ ," he argued.

"Because of something _I did_ , a decision _I made._ The question is not why or if he left, it's what did he do while he was gone," she argued, vociferously. "He could have chosen to return to his old life, _but he chose not to._ He chose to come home _with me_ , to the life he's created here!"

"Look, pal, I know you think he's changed, reformed, whatever you want to call it. But—" She let out a puff of frustrated air.

"Murph, I need you to listen to me," she interrupted again. "You mean a great deal to me, you _know_ that. How couldn't you? You are one of my oldest and dearest friends, have had my back more times than I can count. But I can't do this any longer. Every time you put him down, warn me he's up to no good… tell me I'm too smart to believe whatever game it is he's playing…." She shook her head and rubbed at her arms, "You're asking me to make a choice: him or you." When Murphy seemed prepared to speak, she held up her hand again, and he fell silent. "It's partially my fault. I know that." She gesticulated with a hand."I don't want to lose your friendship." She raised her eyes to meet his. "I choose him, Murphy." Murphy looked as stunned as he would have if she'd slapped him.

"What are you saying, Laura?"

"Your friendship means the world to me. I don't want to lose it. And I hope you don't want to lose mine. But it has to stop. No more warnings. No more doubts. No more accusations. I choose him."

Unwittingly, Remington walked in on the last, having come looking for Laura when she and Murphy still hadn't come to the table. He looked back over his shoulder toward the dining room, considering retreat, when her brown eyes met his, and a soft smile lifted her lips. It was all the encouragement he needed.

"People are looking for us," she told her old friend. "Let's go enjoy our dinner. Huh?" she suggested, laying a hand on Murphy's arm for the briefest of moments, then stepping away from him and reaching for Remington's hand, smiling when he automatically weaved their fingers together.

"Is everything okay?" he questioned, ducking his head down to speak close to her ear.

"Everything's fine," she assured, accompanying her words with a squeeze of his hand. "Let's just enjoy the evening."

* * *

The meal had gone well, Murphy joining the other two couples shortly after Remington and Laura sat down. Throughout the meal, Murphy had let innocuous comments pass, openings he'd normally use as invitations to take a shot at Remington. After the meal was finished and plates cleared, Laura and Remington took to the dance floor while Miles excused himself. Seeing her opportunity, Bernice propped her chin in a hand and gave Murphy a hard but amused look.

"Alright, give," she demanded. He grinned at her in answer.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh-uh. Spill," she insisted. "What's the deal with that little tete-a-tete between you and Laura earlier?"

"A warning, I guess you could call it," he answered ruefully. Her brows peaked and her eyes widened with interest.

"What kind of warning?"

"To back off Steele." She gave him impressed look.

" _Laura_ said that?" she verified, then smiled wide at his nod. "Well, good for her."

"Good for her?!" Murphy sputtered. She turned her head to watch the couple on the dance floor.

"Mmmm. Good for her," she repeated. "Look at her. She's _happy_ Murph. Happier than _I've_ ever seen her. Maybe it only lasts a few weeks, maybe it lasts forever. It doesn't matter. She _deserves_ to be happy, for however long it lasts."

"Until he leaves her life in pieces," he protested.

"I don't think that he will," she pondered aloud. "He seems as wrapped up in her as she is in him." She returned her eyes to the man across from her when he snorted in derision. "Take my advice, Murph: If you wanna keep Laura as a friend, _listen_ to whatever it was she said to you. If it comes down to you or him, you'll lose."


	3. Chapter 3: A Memorable Weekend

Chapter 3: A Memorable Weekend

On Friday morning, Laura woke Remington in a most memorable way. A quick study, over the last months she'd discovered how to rouse him of a morning with ease. It only took three, short steps.

It was a little after seven when she wriggled over to face him, then propping herself on an elbow, latched her mouth over his collarbone, suckling softly, while she drew a slow hand down his back and over his firm bottom. She watched the goosebumps pepper his skin, as he groaned low in his throat, his hand clutching at her waist. _One._

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she murmured next to his ear, before drawing its lobe into her mouth and caressing it with her tongue.

"It won't work," he vowed sleepily, as he always did, never opening his eyes. Seven a.m. was an hour fit for neither man nor beast in his opinion.

"We'll see," she smiled, her fingers taking a teasing dip beneath the waistband of his pajamas, to caress a cheek of his bum, eliciting another moan from him. A pair of groggy blue eyes blinked open as his hand slid beneath the hem of the pajama shirt she was wearing, seeking flesh. _Two._

"I'm not putty in your hands, Miss Holt," he grumbled, throatily.

" _Never_ ," she agreed, bending down to touch her lips to his.

She trailed the tip of her tongue from chin to jaw, before settling her mouth beneath his ear, suckling, nipping, teasing with the tip of her tongue, while she drew her nails softly up the back of his thigh, over his bottom, around his waist then up his chest, stopping at a nipple to tease it. With a final groan, he rolled, easing her onto her back as he stretched his lean frame over hers. She laughed, huskily. _Three._

The wake-up call retained its perfect record, and they were walking out the door of the lobby towards a waiting cab by nine. He was… stunned… to realize she'd meticulously planned the day with him in mind with trips to the Guggenheim and Museum of Modern Art, although they'd stopped several times for her to sample a slice of New York style pizza here – which she'd proclaimed 'divine' – and to sample an authentic Gray's Papaya hot dog there – which she'd found 'heavenly.' They wrapped up the day with a nod to his love for movies: _An Affair to Remember_ , specifically. As they stood next to the rail on the observation deck of the Empire State building, she smiled jauntily at him.

"'Everything comes to easily to him. He's always attracted by the art he isn't practicing, the place he hasn't been, the girl he hasn't met'," she quoted.

"Very good, Laura," he praised, not even trying to conceal his surprise.

"Although I suppose in your case," she slanted him a mischievous look, "It would be more accurate to say 'He's always attracted by the art he hasn't heisted yet'." He grabbed at his chest, dramatically.

"You wound me, Miss Holt. Need I remind you, I'm a reformed man?" he asked teasingly, then grew serious as he reached out and palmed her cheek. "None of the three have been true for a long… long time." He leaned in and gave her a lingering kiss, then rested his forehead against hers for long seconds.

"We should get back to the hotel," she finally suggested quietly, thrown off kilter by his words, the kiss, now this. Forehead still leaning against hers, he nodded his head then straightened and checked his watch

"Can't have Ms. Wolfe cross with us for arriving late to her rehearsal dinner, now can we?" he agreed.

The rehearsal and dinner afterwards were quiet affairs, as Bernice and Miles were determined to keep the wedding small, despite the demands of their families that it be otherwise. Bernice's sister would stand as her matron of honor, Laura her bridesmaid, Bernice's niece the flower girl. Similarly, Miles two brothers would act as best man and groomsman, his nephew ring bearer. The rehearsal was smooth and swift, the dinner a comfortable, friendly affair, wrapping up after only a couple of hours.

As Remington and Laura stepped outside to call a taxi, he held up two tickets, with a flourish. Her eyes scanned the tickets, then widened.

"The ballet? You got us tickets to the ballet?" A dimpled, joyous smile lit her face.

"I believe you once mentioned a desire to see Balanchine's redesign of _Swan Lake_ , and since you'd said we'd have tonight free…"

She cast a critical eye first over herself, then him, deciding although their attire might not be the formal garb they'd normally don for such an occasion, they'd pass muster. He'd worn his navy pinstriped suit, with a crisp, white dress shirt, maroon tie and matching pocket square, a touch to his attire meant to complement her own… something he'd done more and more often over the last year… while she'd chosen to go with simple elegance on the evening, wearing a fabulous find she'd found at a little vintage shop back in LA: a maroon off-the-shoulder bell-sleeved affair, whose flowing fabric concealed - yet still hinted at - the figure beneath the material while showcasing a pair of shapely legs.

"I suppose we'll do," she noted, aloud.

A corner of his mouth quirked upwards as he raised his arm to signal an available hack driving in their direction.

* * *

" _ **Did I remember to tell you, you look especially beautiful tonight?"**_

" _ **And you look very handsome."**_

" _ **We make the perfect couple, don't we?"**_

* * *

Not too terribly long ago, as they'd taken their seats in Marty's whilst visiting San Francisco, he'd remarked that they made the perfect couple, and he'd been completely sincere.

He'd spent a lifetime escorting women who were… stunning… and they'd known it. They'd expected the attention, had craved it. It was, for those women, part of the allure of being on his arm, for he too garnered his share of attention, thus if the sun wasn't shining directly upon them, they could bask in warmth of his.

But not Laura. What a delightful mix of contradictions she was when it came to the attention her natural, understated beauty drew. More often than not, she seemed oblivious to the eyes that followed her as she strode past with that regal posture, those confident, long-legged strides of hers. She appeared blissfully unaware of the attention that they, as a couple, drew, the current that ran between them leaving sparks in their wake as they passed through a room, drawing eyes from all around.

And when she was aware of the attention drawn her way? Unlike those beauties of his past, she didn't bask in the admiration. No, she'd be slightly irritated by it. She was, after all, a woman who never wished to be seen… by anyone… as flesh, first and foremost.

Still, on this evening, like so many others before it, he couldn't help but admire that very flesh… and the woman that lay beneath its surface. Opening the door to the cab, and handing her in, he followed quickly behind.

"The Lincoln Center," he instructed the cabbie, "And I'll make it worth your while should you get us there before the curtain rises." The cabbie's eyes gleamed with unconcealed greed.

"You've got it, man," he replied, before turning back around and. rev'ving the engine, he yanked the wheel, dropping the cab into the midst of the evening traffic.

They made it to the theater in time. She was enthralled by Balanchine's decision to garb the corps in all black, the first time in the ballet's hundred-year history that it had ever been done. Afterwards, she declared the decision had been 'sheer genius' and when coupled with the landmark new setting – walls of ice surrounding an arctic lake as opposed to the traditional Gothic lakeside – she'd found the classic production had ascended into the ranks of a 'masterpiece.'

Then, it was her turn to be held captivated by her Mr. Steele's seemingly endless wealth of knowledge when it came to the arts, as he discussed the initial failure of _Swan Lake_ and Tchaikovsky's outrage when, in 1877, Anna Sobeshchanskaya requested Marius Petipa of the St. Petersburg Imperial Theaters to change the pas de six in the third act into a pas de deux. Re-choreographed, Tchiakovsky's music score had been abandoned, initially infuriating the composer, then inspiring him to compose a pas that would complement the changes.

Believing the day had come to an end, Laura lifted a pair of brows in silent question when Remington directed the driver of their next cab to deliver them to Central Park. Lifting her hand in his, he whispered his lips over its back, as intense blue eyes lifted up to regard her from beneath a fan of dark lashes.

"What's life, Miss Holt, without a bit of romance, hmmmm?" he hummed, then delighted in the faint blush that spread to her cheeks.

The carriage ride through Central Park proved to be just that: Romantic in a way only Remington could make it. After thick blankets were draped over their laps to ward off the coolness of the evening, mugs of hot buttered rum were pressed into their hands to enjoy as the carriage ambled through the Park. Quiet conversation had been interspersed with movie references as they passed various landmark.

" _Portrait of Jennie,_ " he remarked as they passed the historic Dairy. "Joseph Cotton, Jennifer Jones, Ethel Barrymore, Vanguard Films, 1948. A struggling artist find his muse in an ethereal young girl that he meets in Central Park."

The references lifted her lips in a smile, they were so typical of her Mr. Steele, but elsewise she found her stomach filled with butterflies of the fluttering type. She'd discovered herself to be the object of long, intense gazes and glancing touches that set her pulse racing and heart pounding. By the time the ride ended, and he held out a hand to her to help her alight, she was a bundle of nerves… and the single rose he accepted from the liveryman then presented to her before bestowing a whispering kiss upon her lips, did little to quell them.

By the time they'd arrived back in their suite, Remington's lips twitched with amusement. For the past thirty-minutes Laura had fidgeted non-stop and was thoroughly unaware that she was doing so. It was in knowing her so well that he reached for the phone and dialed room service: a stressed Laura rejected food, whereas a nervous Laura ate. Lighting a fire, he tugged her down on the couch, then flicked on the television. The familiarity of the scene, played out innumerable times in the past, calmed her mounting anxiety, as he'd intended.

That night… they played, or rather he did, using her wickedly slim form as his canvas, the warm chocolate sauce and cool champagne his pallet. He alternated between feeding her tidbits of bread dipped in cheese and strawberries bathed in chocolate, and suckling upon the chocolate topped peaks of breasts and lapping at a navel spilling over with champagne. They laughed and teased one another endlessly, both in bed and in the shower afterwards. She fell asleep thoroughly relaxed, a smile playing upon her lips.

Those butterflies, however, were destined to return. When they woke mid-morning Saturday, he made love to her with a tenderness and thoroughness that had left her shaking and shaken. By the time they arrived at the church, she was only too happy to put some distance between them so that she could clear her head.

"I'll see you after the ceremony," she told him as they'd crossed through the doors and stood in the atrium. With a touch of her fingertips to his arm, she turned to leave.

Well, a man has to have his fun, hasn't he? His hand caught hers before she could flit away, and she turned back around to face him, a pair of questioning brows raised. He pressed a kiss upon her forehead, allowed his lips linger there for an extra heartbeat, before tilting her head back with a pair a fingers to her chin. Avid blue eyes held wary brown ones.

"I'm counting the moments." Her jaw fell open.

She spent twenty minutes kicking herself for the way she'd fled beneath his bemused gaze and another twenty-five wishing for a five-pound box of chocolates… and a closet to devour it in. It had taken all her concentration to gather her wits about her, so that when the sanctuary doors swung open, she was able to make her way down the aisle with the quiet confidence she was known for.

 _She's stunning…_

Remington drew in a breath and let it out slowly. The dress she wore was made of blush colored lace. Sleeveless, the scalloped bodice hugged her form, before the dress nipped in at the waist then billowed into a full skirt that fell to mid calf. The dress had a decidedly elegant, fifties flair that flattered her delicate figure, while beckoning images of Audrey Hepburn to his mind. His eyes followed her, sparkling with pride and a proprietary air that another man wouldn't mistake…

* * *

Including Murphy, who'd immediately identified the look for what it was… for what it had always had been. It was, perhaps, the singularly most irritating characteristic of Steele's that had never failed to get under his skin.

Well, other than those _other_ simple little matters of his past, his smugness, his vanity, his movie references, etc etc etc.

But, Steele had arrived on the scene at the same time Murphy had begun to hope the landscape of his relationship with Laura might finally transcend the friend/partner plain... and he'd watched those hopes rapidly fade away. The former thief and conman hadn't even been there two months before he'd laid clear claim to Laura.

And the woman who deplored misogyny of _any form_? Well, she not only didn't seem to mind _this man_ making it clear she belonged to him but she enjoyed it, was _flattered_ by it. If accused of exactly that, she'd have denied it, of course, then would have pointed out the frequency with which she'd used his attraction to her as… encouragement… to do his job, actually proved this was about business and nothing more.

But, kiss the woman in her office, express your own romantic hopes, and she'd be quick to race after him, to put his mind at ease.

No, she hadn't mind _his_ claim to her, not at all.

It was infuriating then, and it was still irritating now.

* * *

The ceremony had been beautiful, enough so that it could make a man envision himself standing at the altar in his wedding day finery, with a beautiful young woman, dressed all in white, standing at his side.

Not that he'd needed a wedding to inspire such thoughts of late…

The reception afterwards, at a country club almost an hour outside the city, had been a quiet, elegant affair. The champagne had flowed freely, and their meals had been quality fare. They'd enjoyed themselves enough, conversing and dancing, that they'd stayed until shortly before the witching hour, at which time they'd said their adieus. The following day, with no obligations to speak of, they could sleep as late as they wished, then explore the city at will until it was time to catch the redeye back to LA.

When the door to their suite closed behind them, Remington liberated Laura of her coat, then shrugged out of his own.. A call to room service, before they'd left earlier in the day, had assured a nice chardonnay was chilling in the living room on their return. As he hung up their coats and tended to the bottle of wine, she roamed out onto the balcony.

The night breeze held a brisk chill, one she hoped would chase the remnants of smoke out of her clothes and hair… and help restore her flagging energy. The day had been lovely, but right now what she wished for was some quality time, alone, with the man inside. Over the last years, a 'night out' had stopped meaning going to the club to dance – a smile twitched at her lips – or to a bar to shoot some pool, while enjoying a couple of beers. Instead, that night out had become sedate meals in fine restaurants, an opening at a local gallery or a quiet evening dancing in establishment meant for people much older than themselves. He'd wanted _her, alone,_ anyway he could get her… and it hadn't been long before that had become her preference as well.

She smelled the scent of his cologne on the night breeze…

Remington paused in the doorway of the balcony to appreciate the view before him. Laura, still dressed in her bridesmaid dress, the slight breeze rustling against her skirt, stirring her hair, which had been clipped to the side. Lights bobbled beneath the trees in Central Park, the city was lit up beyond. The only thing missing was a full moon, to cast beams down upon her lovely face. He committed every detail to memory , vowing if he ever picked up a brush, that this would be this very image he'd first commit to canvas.

He stepped onto the balcony, and set the glasses of wine on a small dining table before going to her. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, he wanted to…

Easing himself up behind her, he cupped her shoulders in his hands. The touch, and her response, had become a normal ritual for them over the last months, and she automatically leaned slightly into him, and lay the back of her head against his shoulder.

"it's beautiful, isn't it?" she observed. Los Angeles would always be 'the best' city in the world to her, but New York held a special… magic.

"Never seen anything lovelier," he agreed, although his was speaking of the woman standing with him, not of the view. Shifting her slightly in his arms, he bent down his head until his lips hovered near her ear…

"I love you."

The words had been said so softly that she'd never had heard, had she not been so near. But it wasn't the lack of volume that commandeered her attention but the manner in which they'd been said: Each word lengthened, breathy, as though finally releasing the words allowed him to breathe. She grasped his right hand in hers, drawing it down, so that she could press her lips to his palm.

"I know," she answered with quiet confidence, as she eased their now joined hands down to rest in the center of her abdomen.

And the wonder of it was… that she did. Following their conversation on the beach after their _disastrous_ encounter at the Freidlich Spa, she'd had countless hours to think about all he'd said, both verbally and through his body language. These last weeks, she'd made a concerted effort to be more open, to answering questions posed thoughtfully and honestly, instead of deflecting them with a snappy reply or some quick wit. She'd stopped hiding their relationship from her friends and family, surprising some, confirming the suspicions of others.

And… she'd spent a good deal of time paying attention to current deeds, and recognizing former deeds for what they were, what they'd said.

She'd come to accept she might never hear the words from him, for every time he'd seemed tempted to say them, he'd grown tongue-tied and anxious. His deeds would have to be enough… were enough.

But, that he'd found a way to give them to her?

The last of the glass walls around her heart, which were already spidered with cracks, shattered and then were gone. She turned her head, pressed her lips against the fluttering pulse in his neck, allowed them to linger there for a long moment.

"I love you, too."

He breathed in a deep, ragged breath, having found confirmation in her words of all the deeds he'd interpreted as such.

The tremor in the hand that tugged her around to face him, told her exactly how affected he was by the words. She palmed his cheek in her hand as he bent down to kiss her, then, their lips never parting, he swept her off her feet and carried her inside.

* * *

Laura silently groaned as she stepped out of the cab. Throughout the flight, she'd vowed not to eat for a week if the bloated feeling would just go away. That afternoon, they'd enjoyed lunch at Tavern on the Green, after which they'd whiled away hours at Coney Island. Despite the four-course meal only a few hours before, she'd sampled nearly all the 'boardwalk' food the Park had to offer. A dog, then an elephant ear; a bag of popcorn and a cone of cotton candy; a hot pretzel and some taffy; and, a Coke to wash it all down.

She'd savored the food in the moment, she lamented the food now.

"Ugh," she groaned. "Next time we get invited to a weekend wedding bash in New York, remind me not to eat everything in sight."

"Certainly took quite a bite out of the Big Apple," Remington agreed, thoroughly exhausted by the miles of ground they'd covered at Coney Island, followed by the long flight home."Ate everything except the worm, I'd say." Looking over his shoulder, he called to the taxi driver, "Just the lady's bags, thank you very much." Her body language had told him he'd be sleeping at his flat, alone, that evening. On another night, when he had more energy, he might have pointed out the absurdity. But that night wasn't tonight. "Nothing personal, Laura, I just don't think I've got the energy to coax you into a romantic interlude." Picking up her bags, he followed her up the short flight of stairs to the front door of the warehouse where her loft was located.

"That's alright," she replied, just as wearily. Had she not been as tired as she was, she would have likely recognized how silly it was to send him halfway across town after the weekend they'd spent together. But, as tired as she was, it didn't occur to her at all. "I don't think I've got the energy to thwart your attempts anyway." He flashed her a half-hearted smile, that was meant to pass as wolfish. He suspected it failed.

"Oh, well, on the other hand, I think I just got my second wind," he joked, flatly. With a tired smiled, Laura stepped down two stairs so that they were eye to eye and dropped a kiss on his lips.

"See you in the morning." Taking her suitcases from him she ascended the stairs.

"Yes, yes, of course. In the morning. Why break tradition, eh?" His statement was more from ritual, than anything else.

Smacking his lips, savoring her sweet kiss, he descended the stairs, and climbed into the taxi without a backwards glance. His head lolled backwards to lay against the seat.

"The Rossmore," he instructed, in the instant before he closed his eyes.

Neither of them would be prepared for what they found at their respective homes.


	4. Chapter 4: Walls

Chapter 4: Walls

It hadn't been an easy few days... by anyone's standards. Who could have predicted when their plane had landed at LAX on Sunday night, that Remington and Laura would arrive home to discover they'd been 'murdered' and would end up living on the streets for two days? One night spent in a 'porno house'- as Laura had referred to it – and, then, on the second night, starting out in a homeless shelter only to finish it in a drainage pipe under the highway. Two days, during which they'd been on the run from several nefarious individuals, all determined to quiet them. Two days, during which it had been revealed it was Remington's friend, Freddie, and his girlfriend that had been murdered Remington's flat… and another old acquaintance who'd been the perpetrator of the deed.

Through it all, he'd been there at her side, guiding her, watching over her… he'd even been prepared to go it alone if it meant she'd sleep soundly. Two days. That's all it had been. But by the end of those two days…. Who was she kidding?... By the end of the first day, she'd been going out of her mind. She wanted a shower, a clean bathroom, her brush, her bed… _her kitchen._ God, she'd been hungry, and not knowing where there next meal would come, _if_ it would come, had only made her obsess on the emptiness of her stomach.

How had he done it? He'd only been _a child_ when he'd started living on the streets. Unlike those two days for her, he hadn't had the small comfort of knowing his homeless status would only last a short time. In fact, it would have been quite the opposite, as he'd have been bright enough to understand the odds of someone offering a child on the streets a home were not in his favor.

She'd been amazed by how quickly he'd adapted to their newly acquired homeless and broke status. The man who so often whined when a case pulled them away from a meal hadn't once complained of hunger, as she incessantly had. The man who was absolutely fastidious when it came to his grooming, hadn't batted so much as a single lash when he'd had far more than a few wrinkles to be concerned about. The man who wouldn't settle for anything less than Egyptian cotton sheets and silk pajamas, had easily surrendered to sleep wherever they'd landed. And, _somehow_ , the man had managed to maintain his optimistic, devil-may-care attitude, while she certainly couldn't—

She snapped out of her thoughts when he spoke…

"All Candy had to do was to follow Freddy's girlfriend to wherever Freddy was and get the ticket herself." It had been a shock to her, as well, that the pickpocket who dressed like a hooker would be capable of killing her friends just to line her pockets

"She didn't strike me as the murdering kind, though," Laura mused.

"No. No, I don't understand that myself," he ruminated. "I guess greed got the better of her." Before arriving at Remington's she'd had a revelation where Candy was concerned, and she shared it with him now.

"Candy sent us to Pittsburgh Phil knowing full well how he'd react to seeing us alive."

"Mmmm hmmm," he agreed, having come to the same conclusion himself. "While she had ample time to bribe poor old Harrigan into using his track connections to help her to cash the ticket in without undue publicity."

"Unfortunately for Harrigan, greed got the better of her again," she noted.

"Mmmm. Ironic, isn't it?" he commented, as he reached for his glass. "We spent the past two days with hardly a penny in our pockets, and all because of a ticket worth well over a million dollars." A smile played at her lips. It was, indeed, ironic.

"It's amazing how little we can survive on if we really have—" She startled, then froze, as something grazed her leg, the glancing touch far too similar to _whatever_ it had been rubbing against her leg the evening before. "Is that your foot on my leg?" she inquired, warily. Wagging his brows at her, he gave her a devilish little grin.

"Mmmm hmmmm," he hummed. Foot, glass, did it matter?

She laughed, a silent laugh, her lips lifting in a smile as she met him half way. Their kisses were soft as a glancing whisper at first, but soon he set aside his glass. Burying his fingers in her thick tresses, he palmed the back of her head, and eased her to her back, his lips settling firmly over hers. He savored her taste, nipping at her lips, caressing them, his tongue every now and then inviting hers to dance. Ahhh, he'd missed the sweet simplicity of kissing her the past days, neither finding the streets an incentive for romance.

The kiss grew deeper yet somehow more tender, her lips lifting beneath his in a smile as she realized he'd become lost in some thought, although it was patently obvious that thought was about her given the way he kissed her.

She was right, of course. His thoughts had led him to recall the moment she'd returned to the side of his bed in the homeless shelter.

* * *

" _ **Stop hogging the bed."**_

* * *

Emotion had swamped him now, as it had then. In a situation far outside of her comfort zone, she'd stayed _for him_. It had left him gobsmacked, her deeds confirming the words she'd given to him in New York. His mouth left hers, to travel along her jaw, then down her neck.

"Laura…" he murmured, in that breathy way he had when caught up in his emotions. She smiled and traipsed her fingers through his hair, along his neck.

"As romantic as making love in front of the fireplace is, Mr. Steele, after the last two nights, I want you in a nice, clean bed," she suggested. He shifted upwards to kiss her again, then stood, and taking her by the hands helped her up.

Her Mr. Steele was a man of many moods, in bed as well as out of it. On this night, he was the avid lover. There was no silliness, no straying fingers intent on making her shriek with laugher as she tried to escape, no teasing remarks. There was no challenging her, no daring her to take the lead, to push him as far as she might before he wrested control of the game from her, no lift of a brow taunting her to try to take it him from it again. There was no quiet conversation, with glancing touches and brushes of his lips against her skin, the contact meant to arouse yet not distract…. until he wished his actions to do exactly that. Tonight, he was determined to keep their lovemaking achingly slow, to magnify every sensation, to coax every bit of pleasure from her slim form. It was both intoxicating and overwhelming in its underlying emotion, leaving them both trembling and breathless by its end.

Afterwards, as he was inclined to do when feeling particularly close to her, he lay with his head against her stomach, as her fingers alternately wandered through his tousled hair or caressed his cheek, a shoulder. He tended to be introspective after such encounters, saying little, but wishing to keep her as near as possible, often stealing her hand from where it attended to tangle their fingers together, to press a kiss to its palm. She didn't mind the lingering silence, as she'd often be lost in thoughts of her own. Before this last weekend, those thoughts had generally surrounded questions about what he'd been trying to convey. But not tonight. Tonight those thought centered on the man lying exhausted and partially atop her, as their conversation some weeks before played through her head. By the time he shifted upwards to kiss her, then rolled to his back, she was more than happy to follow, settling her head beneath his shoulder, tucking a leg between his, and slinging an arm over his torso.

A firm hand on her shoulder roused her shortly after midnight. Bleary eyed, she blinked up at him in question.

"Time for Cinderella to flee the ball should she not wish to become a pumpkin," he teased, taking care to keep a lightness in his voice that he didn't feel as he pointedly shifted his eyes towards the alarm clock. She frowned at the clock, then nuzzled her head back into his shoulder.

"No, it' not," she disagreed, sleepily, her fingers absently toying with his chest hair, as a pair of heavy eyelids closed again. He tipped his head forward and frowned down at the top of hers. He'd taken her word once before when she'd uttered the same words and his ears had been soundly boxed the next morning. He wouldn't be making the same mistake again. Cupping her shoulder in his hand, he gave it another shake.

"Laura, time to go." Her lashes fluttered upwards as she frowned. Shifting, she pressed up on an elbow to look at him.

"No more schedules, Mr. Steele," she informed him. She watched as first his brows drew together, confused and trying to discern her meaning, then as his brows lifted and warmth infused his eyes. Palming her cheek, he searched her eyes for confirmation of what he believed he meant.

"You mean…." She nodded her head and touched her lips to his, before tucking herself back against him.

"I like falling asleep with and waking to you, too" she murmured.

She was already back to sleep by the time he shifted more fully beneath her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.


	5. Chapter 5: Acronyms

Chapter 5: Acronyms

In retrospect, Remington and Laura would both reflect that they should have realized something was waiting around the corner to turn their lives upside down. After all, wasn't that how it had always been throughout their association? Veckmer, DesCoine, Anna, Cranston, Lydon, Wally, Delgetti… Not to mention their own missteps, which had been many and varied.

They should have known things were going far too smoothly, nary a ripple of discontent in their lives – personally or professionally – for weeks now. On a personal level, they hadn't spent a night apart since Laura had admitted to having no desire to do so any longer. Oh, they hadn't moved in together, not precisely. It was more they went whichever way it was the wind took them: a few days at the Rossmore here, then a couple days at the loft there. Each of their homes had its benefits and shortcomings. His flat offered a gourmet kitchen in which he could work blindfolded, the fireplace, balcony and Jacuzzi tub – plus the added a benefit of a lift to take you where it was you needed to go. As for the loft, despite the dreaded climb up and down three flights of stairs and the miniscule amount of hot water offered up by the water tank, the old warehouse space offered up two things his flat could not: room for Laura's piano and a place for the barre where she so often worked out.

It hadn't mattered, however, where they stayed, whether they enjoyed a quiet night at home or went out on the town, tumbling into bed nearly as soon as they arrived home. For the first time in the years of their association, the underlying tension between them - caused by sexual frustration and a passel of fears – was gone. In its place? The abiding friendship that had held them together by gossamer threads during the most difficult periods of their association which was now coupled with a quiet, easy intimacy.

And professionally? The Agency had been light on investigations these last weeks, yet very busy with lucrative security consultations and budget-friendly skip traces. The only hiccup they'd faced was Laura's insistence that the Agency sign a consulting contract with Vigilance Insurance where, of course, Norman Keyes worked as a claims investigator and recovery agent. Keyes had put the screws to Remington, hard, during the Cranston frame job and Keyes had resented the hell out of the fact he felt Remington had slipped through his fingers. When Keyes had discovered he would answer to Remington? Well, it was a miracle… or perhaps bad luck… that the man hadn't had a stroke.

But that was it, their one and only disagreement, the one ripple… short lived… on the tranquil waters of their lives.

They should have expected it, but they'd never seen it coming: An old foe determined to see the dismantling of the Remington Steele Agency, intent on destroying the man, himself, in the process.

Later, Remington would dub April 15, 1986 as the day of insidious acronyms.

"I simply don't see why we should have to jump through the SBI's bureaucratic hoops again this year, Laura," Remington complained as they stepped off the elevator together. Automatically he lay his hand at the small of her back.

"Given Bergman used his authority with the SBI for his own financial gain," she explained, patience strained as she'd already said the same thing a half dozen times, "It's been mandated that _any_ audit he conducted of _any_ Agency is to be reviewed in full."

"Yes, yes, I understand that, but given the circumstances—" She raised a hand to stop him.

"Let it go, Mr. Steele," she ground out, patience gone. "Whatever it is you have planned for this afternoon, consider it canceled." He gave her an affronted look.

"What I have, Miss Holt, is a rather pressing engagement with your esteemed government's postal service in order to mail what I fear might be a very large check," he retorted. "I can't have Mildred running around pulling files, answering questions unless we wish to invite another audit by the IRS," he finished as they stepped through the Agency doors.

" _My_ taxes have been finished for weeks," she pointed out, with an air of superiority that chafed. Mildred grinned at the exchange as she pushed herself to her feet behind her desk.

"Do you have the 1099 –DIV and –INT I asked for Boss?" she asked, capturing Laura's curiosity.

"Dividends and interest?" she inquired, turning a speculative eye to him.

"Been dabbling a bit in the market," he dismissed, with a wave of his hand, then handed Mildred an envelope from his inside jacket pocket.

"What do our schedules look like today, Mildred?" Laura inquired, as she picked up the mail and thumbed through it. Mildred sat down and consulted the calendar on her desk.

"Warner from the LACDA will be here at ten to prep your testimony for Delgetti's trial. Wickham with the WPP at eleven to pick your brains on the Fitzgerald's, since they've gone on the lam." She ran a finger down the planner. "Jarvis expects both of you at the LAPD no later than one to give your statements." She pointed a finger at Remington. "Boss, you have a meeting at two-thirty with Caroline Wells at the CFAM to discuss the alarm being tripped the last three nights. Miss Holt, same time with the CPA at his office for the Agency's quarterly returns. Then, the two of you back here at four to meet Roberts from LALA. She'd hoping you might consider a little pro bono work on a nasty custody case she's taken on. And in the meantime…" she pointed her pencil in the direction of Remington's office "…Bochner with the SBI is awaiting your arrival." Laura huffed out an aggravated breath.

"Couldn't you have started with that, Mildred?" she asked, elongating their sergeant-at-arm's name in exasperation. Mildred just shrugged her shoulders.

"After what the Boss and I were put through the last time?" She shook her head. "He's ten minutes early. I told him he could cool his heels until you arrived."

"Hold our calls, Mildred," she directed, dropping the stack of mail back on Mildred's desk, then strode towards Remington's office. She peered back over her shoulder at him where he stood nervously straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket. "Coming, Mr. Steele?" He glanced at Mildred who gave him a sympathetic look. She, too, remembered their disastrous and stressful encounter with the SBI the prior year.

"You'll be fine, Boss. You've got this," she assured.

"I wish I could be so sure," he answered, wryly.

"Mr. Steele?" Laura beckoned, arms crossed, fingers of one hand tapping against the other arm, impatiently.

"Of course, Miss Holt."

With a final tug at his tie, he followed her into his office.

* * *

Forty-eight minutes later the door to Remington's office swung open…

"Your records are as impeccable as always, Miss Holt," Bochner praised, as he preceded Remington and Laura out of the office. "Frankly, when Bergman pulled your license last year for 'improprieties' in your records, I went to Bobbish and told him I didn't believe it for a second." He exchanged handshakes with each of them. "Same time next year, then barring any problems, which I don't anticipate, we'll resume the every two-year schedule." With those final words, the pair watched as Bochner departed before returning to Remington's office.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" Laura asked, as Remington crossed the room, and leaned his backside against his desk, crossing his arms in front of him.

"I assure you, Laura, that this…" he gesticulated around the room with an arm, "Didn't resemble in the least the wringer Mildred and I were put through last year."

"Which is why, I wanted you to sit in today," she explained, as she crossed the room to stand in front of him. She went willingly when a hand captured hers and eased her forward to stand between his legs. She flattened her palms against her chest as he loosely embraced her. "Should the SBI make another surprise visit in the future, you'll know what is…" She tapped a finger against his chin. "..and _isn't_ the norm."

"Appreciated." He pursed his lips and smiled at the same time. "Still, if it's all the same to you, I believe I prefer _our_ norm."

"Let me guess," she answered with a lift of her brows. "I continue to jump through all the bureaucratic hoops while you… Take the afternoon and go to the movies?" He shrugged a shoulder, gave her a lopsided smile

"We each have our strengths, Laura," he joked.

"And _yours_ , Mr. Steele, is avoiding anything that resembles work," she noted, with a jab of a finger to his chest.

" _Not work_ ," he challenged. "Merely the more unpleasant aspects of it, chief among those the red tape of bureaucracy."

"Not to mention County Commissioner meetings, honorary chairmanships, paperwork, leg—" She laughed against his lips when they covered hers to end her litany of his shortcomings.

Their lips separated and Laura's head swiveled around to look over her shoulder, when the door opening and shutting was followed by Mildred's….

"Oops."

"How many times do we have to go over this, _Mildred_?" Laura asked, stepping out of Remington's embrace to face the older woman. She wagged her finger towards the phone. "The intercom. Before you walk in on something none of us want you to see." Mildred's brows furrowed together, then, when Laura's meaning clicked, her brows flew up, eyes widened and her mouth formed an 'o'. Her eyes snapped from Laura to Remington, then narrowed in disapproval on him.

" _Mr. Steele,_ " Mildred rebuked. To his utter mortification he felt his face flush. Pushing away from the desk, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

" _Laura…"_ he drew out her name in a pained voice, then forced himself to look at Mildred. "Now, Mildred, darling, you know that would never happen," he implored, then held out a hand in Laura's direction, "This _is_ Miss Holt we're speaking of, after all." Laura drew up to her full height at the comment, giving him a censorious look, before returning her eyes to Mildred.

"What is it, Mildred?"

"Warner from the LACDA is here," Mildred replied, after regaining her composure.

"Show him in."

"You got it," Mildred replied, then added with a sheepish look on her face "Sorry." Laura gave her an 'all's forgiven' wave of her hand.

"We're fine," she assured, then held her silence until the door shut behind the older woman.

She smoothed her skirt as Remington wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, removing any trace of her lipstick . Once the square was properly tucked away, she smoothed the sleeves and lapels of his jacket, then plucked a piece of imaginary lint off a sleeve. He smiled, bemused by the action, wondering if Laura realized this habit of hers was both extraordinarily intimate and wholly domestic.

Two raps against the door signaled the arrival of their next appointment. A tall, distinguished man with salt and pepper hair stepped into the office with Mildred.

"Coffee?" she questioned.

"Black," he confirmed, briskly.

"Mr. Warner, Remington Steele." After handshakes were exchanged, he indicated Laura with a hand in her direction. "My partner, Laura Holt.."

"Miss Holt," he greeted, coolly, as they exchanged handshakes as well.

"Let's have a seat, shall we?" Laura suggested indicating the sofa and chairs. Once they were all seated, Warner wasted no time.

"As you're aware, Anthony Delgetti's trial is scheduled for May seventh. The purpose of our meeting today is to go over the testimony you'll be giving…"

* * *

Warner thumbed through the statements in the file before him.

"Mr. Steele, was there a time at which Delgetti mentioned Dr. Scabbard?" he questioned.

"There was. He stated he'd nearly injured himself as the x-ray machine was very heavy," Remington confirmed. They'd been at it for forty minutes, now, with the vast majority of questions directed at Remington given Laura's minimal interactions with Delgetti.

The pair of detectives exchanged looks when the intercom buzzed.

 _I thought you told Mildred to hold all calls_ , his look said.

 _I did,_ was her answering look.

"I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me," Laura apologized as she stood and walked to the desk. Picking up the receiver, she stabbed at the intercom button.

"Yes, Mildred," she answered.

"Miss Holt," Mildred's worried voice came over the line, "There's someone here to see Mr. Steele."

"We're in the middle of a _meeting_ , Mildred," she reminded her, her aggravation apparent in her tone. "Tell whoever it is they'll have to wait until he's free."

"I think you need to come out here," Mildred advised, nervously, eyeing the tall, slim blonde pacing the office. Looking at the phone, then at Remington and Warner who were still doing Q & A, she sighed, deeply, and shook her head.

"I'll be right out." Hanging up the phone, she stopped to make her excuses to Warner. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, there's a matter that needs attended to in the reception area." Remington raised a questioning eyebrow. _I've no idea,_ the look she gave him answered in reply, before departing the room. Closing the door behind herself, her eyes traveled to where Mildred indicated with a slight tip of her head. In three swift strides, she stood in front of the congenial looking blonde woman. "Laura Holt," she offered her hand.

"Elaine Becker with Immigration and Naturalization Services," the woman introduced herself, handing Laura a business card before shaking her hand. "I need to speak with Mr. Steele on a matter of some urgency."

"May I ask what this is in regards to?"Laura inquired. The woman looked at her apologetically.

"A personal matter. I'm afraid that's all I'm authorized to say to anyone but Mr. Steele."

Laura carefully assessed Elaine Becker: Inexpensive suit, sensible pumps, leather attaché slung over her shoulder, minimal jewelry, no purse. She shifted her gaze to the business card she held in hand: black embossed letter on a white matte substrate. Despite the mask of icy-cool calm she portrayed, a kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in her stomach.

"If you'll give me a minute, I'll see if we can take a break," she offered.

"I'd appreciate that," Becker replied gratefully, then elaborated, apologetically, "I have a twelve-thirty meeting scheduled all the way on the other side of town."

"Give me just a moment," Laura requested, then disappeared behind the door to Remington's office, closing it behind her.

"…we'd be taking a little ride out into the country, and we shouldn't expect to accompany him back to LA," Remington was saying.

"Did he directly threaten your lives? Tell you he was going to put a bullet in—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Warner," Laura interrupted the ADA, "But I have an urgent matter I need to discuss with Mr. Steele in private." Remington's eyes searched her face. It would appear remarkably serene to anyone else, but he saw the faint strain around her eyes. He stood and walked towards her. "It should only take a few minutes," she added, resting her hand on the back of Remington's arm and easing him towards her office door, "And in the meantime, I'll ask Mildred to freshen your coffee. Feel free to read the paper," she indicated the morning paper, lying, unopened, on Remington's desk. An instant later, she and Remington were securely in the privacy of her office.

"What's going on around here, Laura? First, Mildred interrupting, then you leaving and now?" Wordlessly, she handed him Becker's business card. "Elaine Becker, Immigration and Naturalization Service, Los Angeles Division?" he read aloud, puzzled. Then understanding dawned. "Does Maria need character references for her application for Citizenship?"

"She's not here about Maria" She lifted a hand to finger the base of her throat. "She's here to see you on a personal matter. Do you have any idea, whatsoever, why?" He rested an arm atop a filing cabinet, and rubbed at his face with his hand, searching his mind for anything that might have drawn the INS's attention in his direction. When the answer came to him, his stomach relocated itself to somewhere around his knees.

"My passports. You don't imagine the Yard tipped off the INS do you?" Her skin blanched at the thought. It that was the case, was a visit from Interpol to investigate the deeds linked to the names on those passports far behind? She inwardly shuddered, then slowly shook her head.

"Inspector Lombard assured me those passports were being destroyed and I was under the impression that any… misdeeds… associated with them were being overlooked given your efforts to thwart the Earl's assassination," she contemplated aloud. "Whatever it is,we won't k now until you speak with her." She walked to the door leading into reception and lay her hand on the knob, then turned to face him as another thought came to her. "If it is the passports, say _nothing_ until we hire an attorney. Not a word. Understood?"His hand shifted to the back of his neck, rubbing at the sudden tension there.

"Not a word," he repeated. Removing her hand from the door knob, she returned to stand in front of him and, in an act meant to calm both of them in its familiarity, she smoothed her hands down the sleeves of his jacket, then down the lapels.

"Icy calm, Mr. Steele," she advised. Her hand reached for his and she gave it a squeeze, then, as he nodded his head, rapidly, and pulled himself together, she strode across the room and disappeared into the reception area.


	6. Chapter 6: Persona Non Grata

Chapter 6: Persona non grata

"Mildred, would you bring Mr. Warner a fresh cup of coffee, please?" Laura instructed as she entered the reception area of the Agency, before turning her attention to Becker. "Ms. Becker, Mr. Steele was able to break away for a few minutes. If you'll come with me."

"Ms. Becker? Remington Steele," Remington introduced himself with a genial smile and extended hand.

"Mr. Steele," Becker greeted warmly, taking his offered hand. "Thank you for finding the time to speak with me. If we might have a few minutes alone?" she requested, a pointed reference to Laura's lingering presence. He crossed the room and definitively closed the office door, then lay his hand at the small of Laura's back, easing her the rest of the way into the room.

"Anything you need to discuss with me can be done in Miss Holt's presence, I assure you."

"I admire your faith in your employees, Mr. Steele. However, I'm here to speak with you regarding a personal matter—" He felt Laura bristle beneath his hand at being referred to as a mere employee.

"Laura is neither now, nor ever has been, my employee. She's my partner," he corrected, then added, "Whatever it is you have to say, she'll know as soon as you depart. So for expediency's sake…" He held out a hand, inviting her to take a seat.

"Of course," Becker easily agreed, sitting in the chair indicated. Laura, as was her habit, perched herself on the edge of her desk, while he took ownership of her desk chair and with a casual ease he didn't feel at all, he leaned back and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. He picked up a pen to keep his hands busy.

"How can I help you?" Becker sat her briefcase on the floor then, reaching into it, extracted a file.

"Last week, we received an anonymous tip that drew our office's attention to a discrepancy found on your passport which, in turn, raised questions surrounding your legal right to be in the country," Becker informed him. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and cleared his throat.

"A discrepancy?" he questioned.

"Mr. Steele, where were you born?" she asked, seeming to ignore his question. He wet his lips again as his eyes flickered to Laura.

"Kilkenny, Ireland, about an hour's drive outside of Dublin," he replied. She scribbled a note in the file.

"When did you take up residence in the United States?"

"Uhhhh… um… I believe it was…"

"February of '81," Laura answered on his behalf, as she slipped off the desk. He dropped his feet from the corner of the desk and sat upright, so that she could stand next to him. "Two months before we opened the Agency."

"Yet, a United States passport was issued to you in September of 1985. Can you tell me how that is?" Becker questioned without looking up, as she continued to scrawl in the file. Laura's stomach tied itself into knots as the realization sank in that it was the passport she'd obtained for him that was the impetus for the INS's unwelcomed attentions.

"I'm afraid that would be my fault," she supplied, as he lifted a hand to lay over hers on his shoulder, unnoticed by either of them. "Mr. Steele was seriously injured last year while we were on a case, abroad. At the same time, his passport came up missing. Given his limitations due to his injuries, I applied on his behalf for a replacement from the American Consulate and with the help of the Earl of Claridge, managed to get it expedited so Mr. Steele could return home to recover." Becker stopped writing in her file to look up at Laura.

"Are you aware the United States only issues passports to citizens and non-citizen nationals?" she asked. Laura's mouth opened and closed several times, before she answered.

"I am, and while it's no excuse, there was quite a bit of confusion at the time I requested it." She tilted her head in Remington's direction. "Mr. Steele's injury, our involvement in stopping the attempted assassination of the Earl of Claridge, our unmasking of the White Chapel Slasher, and then, of course, the missing passport itself."

"I assure you, Ms. Becker," Remington stepped in, "That we'll get right on requesting a replacement passport from Ireland."

"I don't know if that will be of much assistance to you, Mr. Steele," Becker answered. To her credit, she didn't seem to relish the news she was about to deliver. "Given the questions surrounding your passport, a routine check was performed on your status in this country. We don't find any indication you ever applied for a Visa for entrance to the United States. Is that correct?" Panic began to settle into his gut.

"Uh… I, uh…"

"I'm sorry, to interrupt, but Mr. Steele has been a _valuable_ , contributing member of society since his arrival here," Laura interjected. "Surely, the INS takes that into consideration."

"We do," Ms. Becker agreed, closing the file on her lap and offering the pair an empathetic look. "I've been following Mr. Steele and yourself in the papers since transferring here from Albuquerque three years ago. If it were up to me, we'd address the mistakes and close this out." She sighed. "Unfortunately, the tipster has been quite persistent and has managed to cause quite a stir threatening to go to the media and expose the alleged inequities of the system."

"Inequities?" Laura wondered aloud. Becker nodded her head, solemnly.

"As an example: Why is a blue collar worker who is here illegally deported, whereas a public figure, also here illegally, is not? I can tell you it's a question none of the higher ups at the INS are eager to answer," she explained as she placed the file in her briefcase, then after removing a sheet of paper, stood to leave. "I'm sorry," she apologized, as she handed Remington the piece of paper. "A hearing has been schedule for April twenty-fifth. It is the INS's stance that given the questions surrounding your passport and that you arrived in the country without having filed for a Visa beforehand, that you should be deported back to Ireland." Remington paled at the words, while Laura's fingers flexed, digging painfully into the shoulder where her hand still lay. "Again, I am very sorry. If you'd like my advice: hire a good immigration attorney. I'll see myself out."

When the door closed, Laura took the paper Becker had given Remington and walked slowly across the room as she read. _Deported. Gone._ She patted a hand against her stomach as she continued to read. Ten days. No, nine-and-a-half days to find a way to stop this. Well, that was more time than it took to solve a case, no matter how complex.

She jumped, startled by Remington when he clasped her shoulders in his hands from where he stood behind her. She hadn't even realized he was on the move, and normally she could tell you exactly where the man was in a room.

"Laura…" His voice was gruff with apology… and fear. As she turned to face him, she tilted her head back, straightened her shoulders and drew up to her full height, steely determination written across her face.

"We're going to fight this, Mr. Steele," she told him earnestly. "We're going to fight this and _we are_ going to _win._ " Nodding his head and swallowing hard, he drew her into his embrace. Regretfully, she sidled away and swung open her office door.

"Mildred, a minute."

She didn't have to ask a second time. Mildred had nervously watched the door the entire time the kids had been in there with the woman from the INS. Since the woman had departed, she'd maintained that vigil, knowing that eventually that door would swing open and the kids would tell her what was going on.

"Miss Holt? Boss?" she asked, wringing her hands once in the privacy of Laura's office.

"Mildred, I need you to tell Wickham an emergency has come up and reschedule him for later in the week. Cancel my appointment with the accountant and I'll reschedule when I can," Laura ticked off. "Call Jarvis, tell him we'll be in around 5:30. Push Caroline Wells back to three o'clock. Roberts can wait until we get back from the museum. Then, I want you to find us the name of the best immigration lawyer in town. I don't care what it takes, but I want Mr. Steele and I in their office within the next two hours."

"You don't mean…" Looking at Laura didn't assuage her fears, so she turned to face Remington. "No, you don't mean… They're not going to…."

"Deport me? That seems to be the plan," he confirmed, with a pained expression. Mildred rushed to him and wrapped him in a hug.

"Oh, Boss," she wailed, as he patted her back.

"We're not going to let that happen, Mildred," Laura told her with firm resolve. "Are we?" Mildred took the cue for what it was. Laura was telling her, without saying it aloud, that the two of them needed to be his rock right now, not add to his burden worrying for them. Releasing 'the Boss', she stepped back and squared up her shoulders, much like Laura had earlier.

"No, we're not," she agreed, her resolve matching Laura's own. Reaching up, she pinched his chin between her fingers. "Because for better or worse you're ours," she baby talked through pursed lips, "And no one's taking you away." She finished her 'assurance' with a couple of pats to his cheek. For the second time in under two hours, he felt his face grow warm at the overt display of affection.

"Then let's hop to it," Laura suggested, smacking her hands together for emphasis. "Mildred, calls and an attorney. In the meantime, Mr. Steele and I will liberate ourselves from Warner.

"I'm on it," Mildred agreed enthusiastically, then hustled out of the room.

Alone again, Laura crossed the room to where Remington stood then pressed up on her tiptoes and circled her arms around his neck, cupping the back of his head in one hand when he wrapped his arms around her. A long minute went by before she felt the tension ease from his shoulders and back. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then stepped back.

"No soliloquies, no movie references, answer the questions straight and to the point. We need to get rid of this guy," she reminded.

With a nod and a hum, he followed her back into his office.


	7. Chapter 7: Just Desserts

Chapter 7: Just Desserts

Thankfully, the name 'Remington Steele' held some sway in Los Angeles, which is how Laura and Remington found themselves sitting in the office of Noah Streatfeild at eleven-forty five that morning, presenting the issue at hand.

"Admittedly, when I arrived here in February of '81," Remington explained, in accordance with the script designed by Laura's hand, "I'd only intended a brief visit. But, then I met Laura, who was already a licensed investigator and the idea of opening an Agency held an undeniable appeal. It never occurred to me I was here without a visa, that I should apply, even, for permission to be here. I haven't, after all, lived in obscurity these last years, as one might do knowing they were here illegally."

"Sounds fairly straightforward to me," Streatfeild commented, as he picked up the receiver on his phone and depressed a button. "Linae, bring me a I-140 packet, please." Dropping the receiver back into the base, he returned his attention to the couple before him. "I assume you haven't been convicted of any crimes since you've been in the US?" Remington's eyes flitted to Laura, who, with a lift of her brows undetectable to anyone but him, indicated he should answer honestly.

"Convicted, no, although I've twice been considered a suspect, once back in '83 for a murder and then this past year in a theft and murder," Remington supplied. "I was cleared of any involvement in both instances."

"One of the unfortunate side effects of our profession is that we tend to draw the unwanted attention of people we've helped put behind bars," Laura expounded, then added, "Or other criminal elements, which was the case in each of these incidences."

"Have you filed taxes for the years you've been here?"

"Faithfully," Remington confirmed.

"We'll want copies of all those returns. Charitable donations?"

"The Agency contributes to the PBF and makes a quarterly donation to the Lost Souls Mission," Laura provided.

"Civic engagement?"

"I've served on the board of any number of worthy endeavors," Remington answered.

"Good, good All goes to your standing and involvement in your community," Streatfeild commended. "We'll want any documentation you might have on those contributions and engagements."

Conversation paused when the door to Streatfeild's office swung open and, presumably, Linae entered the room. Handing Streatfeild a file, she left the room without a word. Standing, he walked around the desk and, leaning his backside against it, handed Remington the file.

"How familiar are you with Immigration laws, Mr. Steele?" Remington gave him a sheepish grin.

"Given my current circumstance, I'd say woefully undereducated." Streatfeild chuckled.

"Good point," he conceded. "There is any number of ways an individual deemed illegal by the INS can petition to remain in the country. In your case, we'll apply for an adjustment of status on the grounds that you're company provides invaluable services to the public."

"Adjustment of status?" Laura inquired.

"Essentially we'll be asking the INS for forgiveness and relief," Streatfeild provide, "Forgiveness for failing to apply for a Visa prior to Mr. Steele's arrival in the United States, then his failure to apply for a green card, neither of which is uncommon these days."

"And the relief?"

"A green card permitting him to remain." Streatfeild indicate the file with a nod of his head. "Assuming you wish me to represent you, Mr. Steele, I'll need the I-140 completed and in my hands as quickly as possible so we can file it with the INS. The I-485, also in the file, can be completed and returned in the next couple of days, so we have it ready to file should your application be approved."

"Should…" This from Remington.

"As I said, this is a fairly straightforward case. Frankly, I'd be shocked if the INS denied your application given your status in the community and your contributions to it." Remington and Laura exchanged glances. On his nod, she took lead.

"Ms. Becker informed us this… anonymous tipster… is putting a great deal of pressure on the INS to deport," she informed the attorney. "In fact, he or she has even threatened to go to the media questioning the disparity of the average illegal immigrant's plight and the ease which with the more… public figure resolves their immigration issues." Streatfeild waved off her concerns with a dismissive flick of her hand.

"A story I wouldn't see anyone in the media taking hold of," he told her, as he rounded his desk and took a seat again. "It's not exactly a secret that the INS is besieged with problems ranging from the average individual's understanding of immigration law to how that law is applied and to whom. So let's not waste energy on this tipster and focus on what we can do proactively."

"Alright," she agreed, as Remington nodded his assent.

"Again, assuming you wish to retain my services, I'll need that I-140 back by morning and we'll have it filed with the INS within an hour or two of receipt. I'll also inform the INS I am now your attorney-of-record, and, as such, will be present during all interviews and any hearings held. In the meantime," he leaned across the desk and handed Remington his card, "If the INS shows up at your home, makes any further contact with you of any kind, call me before you say a word. My home, office, car and mobile phone numbers are all listed. Day or night. _Call_." Remington nodded his head, nervously, in answer. "If you'd like some time to think things through that is fully understandable given the deluge of information you've faced this morning." Another exchange of glances between the pair of detectives.

"That won't be necessary," Remington replied, standing and offering his hand. "I'll have these back to you by morning, along with the documentation you've requested." Handshakes were exchanged all around.

"I know it's easier said than done, but try to relax," Streatfeild advised. "And remember, no further conversation with the INS without my authorization."

* * *

"How's it going kids?" Mildred questioned as she bustled into Remington's office, a large, brown paper bag in hand.

Laura and Remington looked up from where they sat on the sofa in his office, hips touching as they leaned over the paperwork. At Laura's suggestion, they'd enjoyed a quick lunch at Chasen's then had surprised Jarvis by showing up at his office more than four hours early. It had only taken a quick glance at the file given them by Streatfeild to know they had a long night ahead and another reshuffling of their schedules was in order.

When they'd finally traipsed through the Agency doors at four-fifty, Roberts from Legal Aid was patiently awaiting their return. They'd taken the promised meeting then had agreed to render the Agency's services at no charge, as neither of them had been immune to the story of a woman with three small children being left with no financial resources by a bully who'd closed their joint account after clearing them out and had canceled all their credit cards to prevent his soon-to-be-prior ex-wife from gaining custody of their children.

The moment Roberts departed, Mildred had slipped Remington's tax return and a check from his personal account beneath his nose to sign before making a mad dash out the door to post his return and pick up dinner at Madame Wu's for all.

"it's going," Laura answered, drily.

Completing the I-140 had gone smoothly enough, but the I-485 was proving more challenging. The running list Laura was keeping of items they'd need Streatfeild's guidance on was getting lengthy. 'Passport Number Used at Last Arrival'. _Which_ last arrival? When they'd returned from London last fall? Or when he'd first landed on these hallowed shores and took up residence? If the former, easily enough done as they had Remington's passport at hand. If the latter, well, per the story they'd supplied Becker surrounding the mistaken U.S. Passport, it would be the number for the passport he'd lost. The passport that had never existed in the first place… not that they intended to share that with Streatfeild.

"What can I do?" Mildred asked, eagerly, as she passed out the food while Laura shuffled the papers together and, returning them to the file, set them aside for now. Remington's tension had been building steadily and, without him saying a word, she understood he needed to take a step back from all of this and to simply enjoy his meal.

"How's Bernard doing Mildred?" she asked, pointedly. Mildred looked at Laura, confused, then her eyes widened as she got it.

"Graduating next month with high honors," she bragged. "I've gotta tell you, he makes his old aunt proud…"

The small talk was exactly what Remington needed. The comforting familiarity of the casual conversation soon had him rolling a single shoulder, seemingly shrugging off the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders and neck. Soon, he relaxed against the back of the couch, and rested his crossed legs on the coffee table. The easy camaraderie did much for her own tension as well. Thus when he'd finished his meal and reached for her hand, giving it a gentle tug, she went willingly, lounging across his lap, her head pillowed by his arm. The goofy look upon Mildred's face at watching the young the couple left Laura rolling her eyes.

"What is wrong with people?" she continued along the rant she'd been having. "Cynthia Davison has spent the entirety of her adult life as a housewife. And what happens? Her husband empties their bank accounts, cancels all the credit cards, and _walks out_ for no other reason than he wants to be with his bimbo secretary—"

All three heads turned when a foul odor permeated the room and a cackling laugh bounced off the walls.

"From where I'm standing, Holt, you don't have much room talk," Norman Keyes commented with a smarmy grin, as he waved his stogie about. Laura's eyes narrowed on the man, as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the couch.

"Speaking of slime balls," Mildred observed, glaring at the man, as Laura strode across the room and snatched the cigar out of his hand. Marching back to the coffee table, she dropped the burning cigar in a glass of water.

"Nice thought, Laura, but I don't think the cigar is the source of _the stench_ ," Remington noted with a hard edge to his voice as he took to his feet.

"Still cracking jokes, huh, Steele?" Keyes retorted. "Well, lemme tell you somethin'." He hitched a thumb towards his chest. "I'm in the last laugh business, and I'm gonna have it on all of you!"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Keyes," Remington ground out, as he approached the man. "It's after hours and we're _closed._ If you've business to discuss, call tomorrow and make an appointment." He held out an arm towards his open office door. "If you don't mind…" Keyes stepped further into the room to inspect the open cartons on the coffee table. Picking up Laura's discarded mu shu pork, he helped himself to a bite.

"I have it on good word you had a surprise visitor this morning, Steele." The man spoke and laughed around the food in his mouth. Laura snatched the carton from his hand and slapped it back down on the coffee table.

"You're the anonymous tipster!" she exclaimed, angrily. At Laura's correctly drawn conclusion, Mildred launched to her feet, incited.

"You low down—" She sputtered. "What has the Boss ever done to you!?"

Keyes ignored both women and continued taunting Remington.

"That's right," he bragged. "You think I'm gonna answer to you? Nothing doing! Kiss your little Agency goodbye, Steele! I got you right where I want you and I'm gonna love givin' you the boot!" Remington grabbed Keyes by the arm and shoved him towards the door.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you Keyes?" Keyes yanked his arm away from Remington and walked towards Laura, looking her up and down slowly with a leer on his smarmy face.

"Y'know, she ain't a bad lookin' broad in the right light." Laura's face lit up with indignation, as her skin pinked when the man's eyes lingered on her breasts. "I always wondered if you were gettin' a little on the side. If I didn't have anything better to do, I wouldn't mind havin' a go at her myself. Whadya say to you and me hav—"

A whirlwind of motion broke out in the room. Laura jumped when Keyes hand landed on her bottom, while Mildred plopped her fists on her hips, gasping with affront.

"Why you—" she sputtered.

Keyes never saw Remington coming. In an instant, he was spun around and a right hook landed square in his nose, taking him off his feet. He crashed into the coffee table, sending food flying. Incited, Mildred grabbed the only carton remaining on the table.

"Have a little chow mein while you're at it," she recommended, coldly, turning the carton upside down and dumping its contents over the man's head. Keyes howled in fury, lurching to his feet, clutching at his nose.

"That's assault, Steele!" he shouted.

"Technically, its battery," Laura corrected, far too calmly. "As is this." Before he could register her intent, she ground the heel of her shoe into his foot. He howled again, grabbing at it, revealing a stream of blood running from his nose.

"Get out," Remington seethed, grabbing the man's arm and hauling him through the reception area and to the doors. Yanking the door open, he shoved Keyes, hard. The man stumbled and hit the wall in the hallway. Remington was on him again in an instant, spinning him around, slamming his back against the wall. With one hand keeping Keyes pinned to the wall, he grabbed the man by the chin. "If you ever so much as look at Laura again…" he threatened, eyes wild with rage, breath puffing.

"You'll what?" Keyes demanded, defiantly. "You're gonna have a hard time playin' her hero once you're deported, Steele, while I'll be here working with her day-in-and-day-out. I wonder how long it is until she gives it up the goods to—" Remington reared back his fist again.

"Mr. Steele!" Laura shouted at him from the doorway. His fist paused before contact, and he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "He's not worth it," she advised, quietly. Swiveling his head back around to face Keyes, Remington bared his teeth at the man, his rage evident. For good measure, he bounced Keyes's head off the wall again as he released him.

"Little woman's got you by the balls, does she Steele? I always suspected she wore the pants in this two-bit operation!"

"Get out of here!" Remington shouted, pointing down the hall towards the elevator.

"I'm goin'," Keyes sneered. "But I'll be back with the LAPD. You can bet your ass, I'm pressin' charges!" With those final words, Keyes stumbled away, as Remington fought the temptation to help him along with a foot to his backside. He jerked, violently, when Laura lay a hand on his arm.

"Come on," she coaxed, quietly. He stayed put, rubbing at the back of his neck, until Keyes turned the corner, then stepped back into the reception area. "Let's clean up and get out of here. I'd prefer not to deal with the LAPD tonight if we don't have to."

He hummed his agreement, already regretting his actions and wondering what the cost might be.


	8. Chapter 8: Tongue-Tied

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If you are under 18 or uncomfortable with such subject matter, please continue to Chapter 9**_

* * *

Chapter 8: Tongue-Tied

At slightly after three in the morning, Laura searched for Remington in her sleep, rousing when she didn't find him. Pressing up on an elbow, her eyes traveled first around her bedroom, next to darkened bathroom. When her eyes settled upon him where he sat in the corner of the couch, head bowed down, she slipped out bed and quietly padded down the stairs to join him.

Although well hidden by a devil may care attitude, Remington was a worrier by nature - maybe even more so than she. He was prone to brooding when things went amiss. While a generally optimistic, confident man, if the threat was great enough, his mind could turn dark, his mood despondent. He was a man convinced nothing truly good should ever happen to him, always looking for providence to come along and turn his world upside down.

Given the events of the last eighteen hours she had a good idea why he'd taken himself away from her.

She didn't even hesitate when he looked up at her with troubled eyes, easing herself down into his lap and wrapping and arm around his shoulders.

"What are you thinking about down here all alone?" she asked quietly, threading her fingers through his hair.

He parted his lips, then clamping them shut, he cleared his throat and tried again. Then again. And again. Each attempt left him more frustrated that the one before. Finally, breathing hard, he merely shook his head, telling her it wasn't a matter of he _wouldn't_ tell her, but that he was too tied into knots to tell her what was on his mind. She shifted in his lap and, laying her hand against his cheek, studied his eyes finding fear, defeat… and the vulnerability to which she'd never been immune.

She shifted, again, straddling his lap. Brushing back his hair off of his forehead, she cupped his face in her palms. Her eyes held his as she leaned down to whisper her lips across his. When his hands clutched at her waist in a manner akin to a man grabbing at a life-preserver to keep from going under, she kissed him more firmly, deepening it all the more when his arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him. Her lips left his to drop kisses along his jaw, then trailed down his neck as she spoke in a whisper.

"It's alright… We'll find a way out of this, we always do."

His hand buried itself in her hair, urging her lips back to his. He mouth feasted on hers, while his other hand roamed over the rounded cheeks of her bum, along the gentle curve of her waist, up her back, then began its trek all over again. When she backed away, his lips followed, until she eased free of his embrace and left his lap.

He was left spellbound as she stood before him, not the least bit shy, releasing the row of buttons down the front of her night shirt.

His shirt.

Over the last eight months, she'd taken to wearing his clothes often. When she spent the night at his flat, she preferred to wrap herself in his black silk robe of a morning – the robe that stopped just beneath the knee for him, but on her? The hem rested at her feet, making her petite frame seem… diminutive. The sight of her inspired a man to tug her to him and vow never to let her go again.

Long, lazy weekends meant her wandering around his flat, or her loft, wearing one of his shirts with a pair of shorts and nothing else beneath. How was it possible for a simple piece of clothing to be both entirely provocative and wholly domestic at the same time? On those days, he oft found himself vowing that she'd never wear another man's clothes: She was his, and she, drabbed in his clothes, was silently admitting that she knew just that… and approved. Was it a wonder she rarely made it through a day without being relieved of that shirt, and the shorts beneath, before the afternoon came to a close?

But it was this, her garbed in the shirt that matched the pajama pants he wore, that was the most intimate act of all. That she seemed to enjoy the connection the simultaneous sharing of a single outfit implied made his chest tighten, his heart race. If he allowed his eyes to rest upon her too long, encouraged his imagination to take flight, he was easily able to envision spending every night of the remainder of his life watching her dressed such.

That thought sent his mood spiraling downwards again. The possibility that he might lose what they'd found, that he might lose _her_ was unfathomable. He'd nearly gone mad the year prior when they'd been apart those, what had seemed, endless days and months. And that was before—

Laura wrapped her arms around his neck as she settled back on his lap, and kissed him. She'd lost him to his thoughts somewhere along the way. Good ones, at first, judging on the small, goofy smile on his face. Then they'd changed, as a visible tremor shook his body and his smile faded. His eyes grew troubled, his face pinched with distress. Now, she waited… kissing him slowly, nipping at his lips, tasting him, drawing him out.

Sex as comfort, as connection, was not a new concept to them. During the Shane case - both of them deeply rattled by the bombs left in their homes and the death of a kid when one of those bombs detonated in Remington's apartment – they'd used sex for exactly that. It had provided comfort, proof that they were there, together, unharmed… that they would live to fight on another day. She'd worried, then, if it was too soon in their fledgling physical relationship to use sex in such a manner. Not even an inkling of those concerns occurred to her now.

When his palms flattened against her lower back and he instinctively tried to draw her closer, her lips began to journey. Butterfly soft kisses dropped along his brow, his cheeks his jaw. A tender suckle beneath his ear. A playful nip at his lobe. His hands began to wander over her familiar and beloved petite frame. Sitting back, she drew both hands through his hair, as she waited for his emotion swamped blue eyes to meet her worried brown ones.

"I love you, Remington," she quietly assured, cupping one of his cheeks in her hands as she pressed a kiss to the other.

For a man who'd spent a lifetime vowing to judge others based on deeds, not their words, those three words, coming from her, meant everything to him. But for her to also use the name he'd worked so hard to earn the right to?

"Laura…" he murmured, burying a hand in her hair, and tugging her lips back up to his.

As his mouth savored hers she shifted to take him inside, leaving him gasping against her lips at her hot silkiness surrounded him. She inexorably rode him, driving them both to the pinnacle they were seeking, while his hands alternately clutched at her, teased a breast, caressed a bottom, stroked her back. The feel of her skin under his hands, the taste of her mouth, her intoxicating smell surrounding him, her warmth enveloping him, drug him quickly to the edge. Clenching his jaw, determined to wait for her, he slipped a hand between then and experimented with the sensitive nub found between her folds until he found the rhythm that left her panting his name and her hands clutching at his shoulders. He let go of his tenuous hold and they found the stars together.


	9. Chapter 9: Gone

Chapter 9: Gone

At Laura's gentle suggestion, she and Remington returned to the bed from which he'd fled some time before, their discarded clothing left where it had fallen. It would occur to him, sometime before sleep claimed him, that he had no memory of when or how she'd so stealthily relieved him of his own.

Now, however, he lay on his back in the bed, an arm slung over his eyes, Laura's sprawled partially across him, and poured his troubled heart out to her.

"My past, Laura. My damned past. I can't outrun it. It finds me wherever I go. For most of my life, had I faced something such as this, I'd have moved on, never looking back." He drew in a pained breath. "I have a life here, Laura, one I've worked bloody hard to have. One that means a great deal to me. You. After all these years, I finally have _you_." He scrubbed at his face with his hands. Dropping them, he wrapped one arm around her, while the other hand sought out a lock of hair with which to toy. "Last summer was so… difficult. More than I had ever imagined it could be," he added pensively, as he stared at the ceiling. "I think up until then some small part of me had still believed when my time here had come to an end that I could return to the life I'd lived before. Perhaps, not easily or even happily, but eventually I'd find a way. But losing it all, losing you, damned well nearly drove me mad. I'd wake each morning wanting nothing more than to be back here in my own bed, in my kitchen, at the Agency… " He peered down at her when she lifted her head. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "With you."

She pressed a kiss against his neck, then snuggled her head back down into the nook of his shoulder. His arm tightened around her, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

"My God, I missed you," he breathed. Her hand captured the one in her hair and, tangling their fingers together, she drew their joined hands next to her. "I dreamt about you at night, thought about you more times during the day than I'm even able to estimate." He turned his head to stare up at the ceiling again. "As I lay there in that alley, tending my wounds, wondering how I'd continue on…" he frowned and shook his head "…where I might go, I began to hallucinate. And there you were, with me…" He laughed, wryly, "…Even if it was to harp in my ear."

She huffed out a breath and tilted back her head to look at him.

"Nice to know you had such fond thoughts of me," she noted drily, although a smile played at the corners of her lips. His eyes sparkled with warmth when he looked down at her.

"You've no idea how fond," he hummed, drawing their joined hands upwards to brush his lips over the back of her fingers. When his smile faded and his eyes shuttered, she resumed her position under his shoulder.

"Go on," she whispered.

"It helped knowing I could come home once my search came to an end. It made it all… bearable." He squeezed his eyes shut, and swallowed hard. "If I'm deported, Laura, I won't be able to come home again… at least not legally. What does that mean for the Agency? Can you imagine how it will shake our clients' confidence when the believed owner is kicked out of the country by the United States government?" He drew a long, deep breath. "What does it mean for us? We can't conduct this romance of ours thousands of miles away from one another for forever." He blew out that breath. "Everything I've wanted, everything that means the most to me… gone." He paused for several ticks of the clock, then added, "Even my dreams."

"I want you to listen to me, Remington," she told him quietly. Releasing his hand, she propped herself up on his chest, then waited until his eyes met hers. "I know you're scared." She lay her hand against his cheek. "I am too. But you can't panic. You have to try to keep a clear head. Streatfeild appears confident this can be rectified and if not, we'll find another solution. I wish I could make this go away, but I can't. But I can promise you something."

"What's that?" he asked, lifting her hair over her shoulder, then laying his hand against her neck, caressing it.

"I have spent the last four years doing whatever I've needed to do in order to keep you safe, be that following you halfway around the world or putting everything I have on the line," she reminded him. "And, I promise you, I'll do whatever I have to now in order to keep you here." She threaded her fingers through his hair. "Don't count us out, Mr. Steele. I won't let you go so easily." His eyes searched hers, and finding no anger, no blame, only steely determination that they'd see this through, he buried his hand in her hair, and tugged her lips to his. He kissed her hard, then kissed her again.

"I'm counting on it, Miss Holt," he murmured against her lips, then rolled with her, until she lay on her back. He settled over her, then brushed her hair back over her shoulders.

His mouth hovered near hers.

"I love you, Laura," he murmured, before settling his lips over hers...


	10. Chapter 10: Steal Away with Me

Chapter 10: Steal Away with Me

"Streatfeild seemed optimistic about the application for adjustment of status," Laura commented. She stood in front of Remington her backside partially perched on the end of this desk. He nodded his head and rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"He did," he agreed, from where he sat in his chair. She studied him at length and found the strain around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

Streatfeild had pulled some strings, but even so, he'd informed them it might be as late as Monday at noon before they heard back from the INS. It didn't take someone with a great deal of knowledge about the man before her to know he was heading towards full blown panic. While panic was not an ideal state for anyone, it often led to disaster where he was concerned as, inevitably, he'd consider some shortcut, resort to some form of trickery, to try to solve his problems with disaster and chaos following shortly behind.

And if the INS were to reject the application, find at the hearing now only nine days away that he was an undesirable and chose to deport him? She unconsciously shuddered at that unthinkable outcome. But if it were come to pass? She wanted every moment alone with him that she could grab, creating memories that might keep her warm on the cold, lonely nights ahead.

"We have nothing on the schedule this afternoon, or tomorrow," she pondered aloud. "How would you feel about flying up to San Francisco tonight. We could have dinner at Marty's, drinks and danc—"

"Arrest him!" Keyes bellowed, pointing at Remington as he barreled through the open office door, an apologetic Jarvis following behind him. The man sported two black eyes and tape over his nose. Laura launched herself off the desk, spinning around and plopping her hands on his hips.

"I thought we made ourselves clear last night, Mr. Keyes," she announced, coolly, "You're not welcome here. Do I need to have _you_ arrested for trespassing?"

"Miss Holt," Jarvis nodded in her direction, then did likewise to Remington, "Mr. Steele."

"Jarvis," Remington acknowledged with a nod of his own. Standing, he silently lamented the interruption, and by Keyes of all people. He took a step to stand by Laura's side. "How can we help you?" Jarvis shuffled his feet and shoved his hands in his pocket, falling into his habit of imitating Barney Fife from _The Andy Griffith Show._

"Mr. Keyes has filed a complaint with the LAPD alleging you battered him here in your office last night," Jarvis informed them with an apology in his voice.

"Alleged?" Keyes shouted the question. "Look at me!"

"One more outburst, and I'll arrest you for interfering with an investigation," Jarvis told the bald man, firmly, evidently having already tired of the man's overbearing presence. He returned his attention to Remington. "Is that true?"

"Only after he made several lewd suggestions towards Miss Holt then lay his hands upon her," Remington defended. Jarvis turned his attention to Laura.

"He put his hands on you?"

"You betcha!" Mildred exclaimed, as she entered the room. "I was here and saw the whole thing." She turned eyes heated with loathing on Keyes. "You dirt bag," she admonished, wagging her finger at Keyes.

"Again, all after he was asked to remove himself from our premises," Laura added.

"So Mr. Steele was defending you," Jarvis summarised. Laura ground her teeth at the suggestion she needed someone else to defend her.

"That was his intention, yes," she pushed the foul tasting words past her lips. Remington's hand touched the small of her back in apology, knowing how difficult it was for her to say those words.

"Do you wanna press charges?" Jarvis inquired.

"Ch-… Charges?!" Keyes exploded. "I was just having some fun with the little lady." He turned to Laura. "Tell him, Holt!" he demanded. She puffed up in indignation.

"Yes, I do," she elongated the last two words. "Make sure you charge him with trespassing as well." Jarvis nodded his head, once, decisively as he pulled a pair of cuffs out of his jacket pocket.

"Get 'im, Jarvis!" Mildred cheered.

"Norman Keyes, you are under arrest for the battery of Laura Holt and for trespass on the property of the Remington Steele Agency," Jarvis informed Keyes, as he slapped a cuff on one of the man's wrists. "You have the right—"

"Bullshit!" Keyes exploded, yanking his arm away from Jarvis. "No way some yokel is arresting me for a slap on the ass! Look at her, not a scratch on her!" he protested.

"Mr. Keyes, I'd appreciate it if you'd cooperate before I have to add resisting arrest to the charges," Jarvis warned in a polite voice that belied his increasing irritation with the man. Grabbing Keyes other arm, he slapped the second bracelet on.

"I swear, Steele, if it's the last thing I do, I'm taking you..." he turned to look at Laura, "...and _you_ down. Kiss your license," he indicated Laura, "And your Agency goodbye!" The last was hurled at Remington.

"You have the right to remain silent," Jarvis repeated, as he grabbed Keyes cuffed hands and gave him a shove towards the door.

"Don't worry, Keyes. We'll let Nalborne at Vigilance know you're tied up for the immediate future," Remington called at their departing backs.

"Anything you say can and—"

"I'll get you for this, the both of you," Keyes shouted over his shoulder.

"Will be used against you in a court of law…."

"Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say," Mildred harped at Keyes as she followed him and Jarvis from the room, closing the door behind her.

"You do realize if I manage to escape this net the INS has cast with Keyes' assistance, we've three years of dealing with that petulant little prig, don't you?" Remington asked, pacing over to lean his back end against the desk and cross his arms. Laura's face hardened in answer and she stalked to the corner of the desk and picked up the handset to the phone.

"Mildred, get Matthew Nalbourne on the phone," she directed, disconnecting when Mildred agreed.

"Should I ask?" he wondered with a raised brow.

"What can I say? You're right." The lift and drop of her hands matched the rise and fall of her voice.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. She stabbed at it with a fingertip, connecting it to the speakerphone.

"Yes, Mildred."

"Matthew Nalborne on line two, Miss Holt."

"Thank you." She jabbed the blinking hold light. "Matthew. Hi. It's Laura Holt and Remington Steele."

"Well, hey there. What can I do you for?" She rolled her eyes at the Texan affect.

"I'm afraid, given recent events, we've decided to terminate our contract with Vigilance Insurance effective immediately," she announced. In her estimation, the look on Remington's face was priceless. In his office Nalborne sat straight up in his chair, dropping his feet off the corner of the desk. Vigilance had been counting on the skills of the detective duo, given they'd accumulated a 100% recovery rate on recoveries worked for Vigilance.

"I must say, Miss Holt, this is an unhappy surprise," Nalborne finally responded, as Remington rounded his desk to sit in his chair. "Would you mind sharing the why of it? It wasn't but a month ago we were speaking of a successful partnership." Laura and Remington exchanged a look.

"I'd suggest you ask Norman Keyes that question," she replied. "I imagine he's being booked by the LAPD right about now. Goodbye, Matthew." Disconnecting the call, she turned to Remington. "Well, that's that." He nodded in answer, but instead of looking relieved, his cheek resting against a fisted hand suggested he was anything but.

"I can't help thinking Keyes will come after us all the harder, now," he shared his concerns. She resumed her original perch on the side of his desk.

"So, I'll call in a few hours and drop the charges," she shrugged. "What do you say? Close the office, dinner at Marty's, drinks and dancing at Top of the Mark, Fisherman's Wharf tomorrow?"

"Previous commitment on Friday?" His lip protruded in a slight pout, which, contrary to most days, was actually an encouraging sign. The man liked nothing more than to put off the drudgery of work for play.

"Two meetings, but, actually, I have something I promised Frances I'd help with tomorrow night," she answered, intentionally vague. His brows raised in curiosity. She ignored the look and leaned forward to press her palms against his shoulders while giving him a lift of her own brows. "Steal away with me, Mr. Steele."

What else could he say but…

"When do we leave?"


	11. Chapter 11: San Francisco

Chapter 11: San Francisco

Remington reached across the table for Laura's hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. With a smile, she lifted her eyes from the menu, and peering over the top of it, a questioning look was reflected in her eyes.

"In case I haven't said it already," his eyes met hers and held, "You're absolutely remarkable, Laura." Her attention to each detail of this little getaway, thus far, had been astounding, from their first-class accommodations on the flight up from LA to the opulent San Francisco Suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

"I might be insane for doing this," she brushed off the compliment, smiling as mischief dance in her eyes, "But we all go a little mad sometimes." The corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. _Does she really believe she'll slip that past me?_

" _Psycho_ , Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles, Janet Leigh, Paramount, 1960," he recited automatically.

His eyes wandered over her partially bared shoulders and the freckles sprinkled there as he recalled the moment she'd stepped out of the bedroom in their suite. He'd been… gobsmacked… when she'd appeared wearing her version of the little black dress. The red, long sleeved dress was off-the shoulder and positively clung to her every curve, leaving nothing, whatsoever to the imagination. It was provocative, daring and completely out of Laura's norm. His pulse instantly picked up pace and his entire body hummed.

It didn't occur to him that perhaps that should be a concern until they'd stepped into the lobby and she'd immediately drawn the attention of several pairs of admiring eyes. For a split second, he'd been torn: Should he cover her from what he considered to be most unwelcome gazes or should he preen like a peacock that it was he accompanying her?

At times the impulse to lay claim to her, through body language and look should one be needed, was still confounding, even years after he'd first felt the compulsion. But, mystifying or not, it had become familiar feeling and one which had reared up again after they'd left their coats with the coat-check in the restaurant. The instant the first pair of eyes lingered too long upon her, he'd laid a hand on her back and had bent down his head to have a quiet word with her. The act conveyed an intimacy that would warn off any hopeful admirers, as would the way he'd bussed her cheek after paying attendance to her as she sat.

He often wondered if she realized the air positively crackled around them when they were in one another's company, whether for a professional endeavor or a personal one. He often imagined those sparks, that electricity, the attention they drew, was due to the genuine fondness they felt for one another. The simple fact was they truly enjoyed one another's company, which was why they'd virtually lived in one another's pockets over the last years, excepting for those difficult days after Cannes and when he'd left the summer prior. At the mere idea of returning to those days he'd borne in London with great difficulty, days when he'd neither seen nor spoken to her daily, sent his mood spiraling downward and led him to grip the hand held in his harder than he'd intended.

"Have you decided?" the waiter inquired, interrupting his thoughts. He gave his head a mental shake and looked up at the server as the words computed, never noticing Laura's eyes on him, assessing him. She'd noted the sudden change in his mood. He glanced at her, seeking her go ahead to order for both of them, receiving the minutest of nods in answer.

"Mozzarella marinara to start, followed by some veal picatta, light on the lemon butter, linguine in white clam sauce and a bottle of Dom Perignon '76," he rattled off, then offered his menu to the waiter.

"Very good, sir," the server acknowledged. Gathering their menus, he discretely departed. Tugging her hand free of his, she laid it back on top of his, and stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips.

"Do you know what I think would be wonderful?" she posed the quiet question.

"What's that?"

"If for the next twenty-four hours, we could set aside the matter of the INS and focus on what's right before us." She peered around the restaurant. "A romantic city, an elegant setting, good food, great bubbly…" She shifted the position of her hand so she could tangle her fingers with his, "…wonderful company." His lips lifted, and a tender smile lit his eyes.

"That it is," he agreed, softly. Clearing his throat he forcibly put aside his worries for now. "And this time without a fictitious case—"

"Which turned into a real one," she interjected, a glint in her eyes. He laughed low in his throat as he finished.

"To distract us from what truly…" He changed position of their hands against, so he could lift her hand and buss the back "…matters."

Oh, how different this evening was from the last time they'd visited his city, when he'd watched as one romantic venture after another had been hijacked by a case suddenly turned very real. The food was been excellent, the champagne outstanding, the conversation quiet and the company exquisite.

"You know, in America we refer to these as cheese sticks or fried mozzarella," she observed, rolling the end through the marinara sauce on her plate, then taking a bite.

"Ah, but mozzarella marina has a certain… je ne sais quoi," he answered with a bit of a superior tone, earning a roll of the eyes from her.

"I can never decide if you favor Italian or French cuisine," she mused. He pursed his lips, considering the thought. Then, with a lazy shrug of his shoulder, he took another bite of the appetizer.

"I suppose it would depend on the situation. If my mind is set for romance, French cuisine has no comparison with its innovative spices, rich sauces and elegant presentation," he elaborated.

"And Italian?"

"A comfortable evening at home," he answered without hesitation. "Think of it, Laura. Generation-after-generation, recipes for veal scaloppini, manicotti… tiramisu being handed down from one family member to the next. Maybe one generation adds a bit more garlic, the next less, but the essence of the dish remains comforting in its familiarity." He raised a single brow, knowing the next would pique her insatiable curiosity. "It's also the first dish I tried my hand at." She made it a point to look down at her plate, to conceal the smile that twitched at her lips. Plastering her most innocent of looks upon her face she let the cheese stick hover near her lips as she spoke.

"Lemme guess. Spaghetti," she ventured, hoping fervently that the comment was casual enough to keep the details flowing.

Conversation ebbed as their waiter arrived with the main course.

"Veal marsala, actually," he corrected, pointing his fork towards his plate. "Daniel and I spent six months in Vinci, a small… village, I suppose you'd call it… outside of Florence, in order to further my…" he gave her a sheepish smile, "…tutoring and training. Lucia Anna Maria Bianchi," he laughed, fondly. "I spent days on end watching as she prepared one traditional meal after the next, marveling as she made pasta, created her sauces, wondering how she so effortlessly recalled exactly what ingredients were needed without so much as a glance at a recipe card. Weeks passed before she asked if I wished to give my hand a try in the kitchen." He laughed again and flashed her a crooked smile. "She hadn't needed to ask twice." Laura's eyes had narrowed slightly, attention rapt, as he'd spoken. _Days? Weeks?_ For some reason, she'd come to believe over the years that his longest relationship… or one of any consequence… had been with Anna. Did this mean there was a danger of another sociopathic ex-lover of his appearing on their doorstep?

"Devoted yourself to your lessons, did you?" His lips twitched with a suppressed smile. He relished her brief piques of jealousy, as rare as they were – not that she'd admit she was feeling any such thing.

"How could I not?" His smiled the soft smile of a man lost in his reminiscing, as his eyes glazed over. "Those months were the first time I'd ever experienced something remotely similar to a home, from our cottage in the rolling countryside to the woman who allowed me to know what it might have been like to have a grandmother ." He laughed quietly, dropping his eyes to his plate. "And she was that, be it when she was scolding or smothering me." Her heart melted, as it always did when he told tales such as these.

"How old were you?" she dared to ask. He blinked several times, then looked up at her.

"Sixteen or thereabouts," he answered, dismissively. "What did your mother want?" Her face contorted in discomfort and he watched, fascinated as she squirmed in her seat. _What's brought this about?_ "Lau-ra." She picked up her fork and shoved an unladylike portion of her veal marsala into her mouth.

"She's coming to visit in two-weeks," she mumbled around her mouthful of food. _Ah, yes_. That news alone was enough to set the woman across from him into a dither, but the way she was eating while avoiding his eyes, prompted an…

"And?" Her eyes flitted to him then away, as she stuffed another piled fork of food into her mouth.

"And she knows about us," she reminded him. _Ah, that would do it._ He couldn't help it, he laughed. "It's not funny," she ground out, swallowing the food. "You're not going to be the one subjected to endless questions about whether or not I've 'hooked you' and if so why am I not 'reeling you in.'"

"Why do I feel I've suddenly been relegated to the status of a fish?" he pondered aloud with a frown.

"Exactly my point." She pointed her fork at him in emphasis.

After dinner, they'd taken a streetcar to the Mark Hopkins hotel where the Top of the Mark was located. Once again he was reminded of how much had changed in a little more than a year. She'd leaned up against him then seeking his warmth in the cool air, and while he'd been bloody well cheesed by her actions, he hadn't dared to envelope her in his arms, for fear she'd step away. And now? He freely drew her close, and nuzzled his chin against the top of her head when she snuggled closer.

Remington wasn't the only one wrapped up in old memories. As he led her to the dance floor the melody to _While We're Young_ drifted through her mind, as it was the song that had been playing when they'd stepped onto the dance floor the year before. The recent renewal of their personal life, as well as the fact they were being chased by killer cops, had her off balance. One minute she'd been reminding them both of the problems that still stood between them and moving forward…

* * *

 _ **"You know,**_ _ **that**_ _ **is one of the problems with us… You're uh- You're one of the things that I have to guard against…The part of me that I can't ever allow myself to be. Reckless, indulgent, frivolous . . ."**_

* * *

And the next? She was kissing him, unconcerned about who might be watching. Not just a simple glancing kiss, before she tucked her head against his shoulder. For a long minute they'd stood on this floor, feet barely moving, as they savored each touch of their lips to one another's. The entire experience had been simultaneously one of the most romantic moments of her life – how could it not be given the surroundings and the backdrop of San Francisco lit up in the darkened sky – and one of the most confusing. Their barriers had come down and that quiescent desire that always existed for him had roared to life. If Rita del Rio hadn't made her appearance when she had, Laura had been prepared to forget the case, forget the SFPD who wished to extract a piece of their hides, and drag Remington back to the hotel. How, exactly, does one go from lecturing the man one moment, to drowning in him the next? That was a question she'd never figured out the answer to… until he'd left.

Then she'd realized no matter her fears, no matter her concerns, no matter the numerous differences between them, he was it. _The One._ He was that person who made her life richer, more fulfilling. To lose him now, especially after the past eight months? Goosebumps peppered her skin as a chill raced down her spine.

A shiver that he took notice of. He'd been watching as they'd danced, trying to divine what had spirited her away. So lost in her thoughts was she, he doubted she realized she'd been alternately stroking his back, shoulder and chest, and caressing his neck, toying with the hair at his collar. The effect on his body had been instantaneous and he'd pressed slightly closer to her. Thus, he'd felt every nuance of the soft tremor as it coursed through her.

Bending his head down, he whispered his lips over hers. She stirred in his arms, and her eyes lifted to meet his in the heartbeats before she palmed the back of his head and drew his lips back to hers. They danced, swaying softly for long minutes, exchanging glancing touches, supple kisses. At last, she leaned her head back and blinked up at him.

"Let's go back to the hotel," she suggested, palming his cheek in her hand.

Much like Lucia Anna Maria Bianchi hadn't had to ask twice, neither had Laura.


	12. Chapter 12: Lazy Day

Chapter 12: Lazy Day

Laura and Remington opted for the expediency of a cab back to the hotel, rather than the sedate pace of the trollies. Even so, a good deal of necking in the back of that cab had both their bodies humming when they arrived at the hotel. Carefully composing themselves, they walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators. All the while the tips of his fingers caressed the small of her back, reminding her of what had been and what was to come.

The doors to the elevator had barely slid fully closed before he spun to face her. Pressing a hand to the wall beside her, his mouth descended and latched over hers. Caught unaware, she swayed on her feet. She clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, then dragged her fingers up his neck and through his hair when his arm wrapped around her waist. With a hum deep in his throat, he surged forward, trapping her between his hard frame and the even harder wall. She laughed a sultry little laugh and drew his lower lip into her mouth in answer. A set of nimble fingers unknotted his tie, then released the row of buttons at the front of his shirt, her fingers flexing against the warm skin beneath them when her hands slipped inside his shirt. She gasped against his mouth when a thumb grazed her sensitive nipple.

Later, she wouldn't be able to recall how they'd made it back to their suite. Shrugging out of her coat, she allowed it to drop to the floor as her hands tugged his shirt tails out from beneath the waist of his pants, before suddenly clumsy fingers worked at his belt, the fastening of his pants, until, at last, his substantial erection sprung free from the confines of his clothing. Hungrily, her hand encircled his shaft. She knew precisely how to touch him, how to arouse him the quickest, and when her fingers eased back the foreskin and thumb twirled over the tip of his shaft, he made no attempt to disguise the guttural groan in response to her touch.

His rigid shaft slipped from her fingers and she grunted her dismay at the loss of its hard silkiness in her hand when he plucked her up off the floor and deposited her on the sofa table. His fingers parted the wet flesh at the apex of her thighs, finding her, blessedly, more than ready for him. She stared down at his hand as he explored her, vaguely wondering when he'd manage to shove her skirt up around her waist and relieve her of her panties. That thought skittered away to be replaced by a far more pressing concern. She wanted him and she wanted him _now,_ without all the niceties he was prone to. After all, their prior antics on the evening, was foreplay enough. She grabbed at his hips and pulled him forward.

"Now, Remington," she panted.

Chest rising and falling hard, he took her at her word. Gripping her hips, he drew her closer to the edge of the table. Positioning himself, he surged forward, filling her in one thrust. She moaned her pleasure, as she leaned back, bracing herself against the table with one arm, while her other hand wandered over his hip and abdomen.

"Remington," she puffed his name. Her eyes zeroed in on where their bodies were joined, the sight of his shaft disappearing into her then reemerging from her depths somehow the most… erotic… thing she'd ever experienced. "Remington," she gasped.

At the sound of his name, his eyes alighted on her face then followed her gaze downwards. He nearly lost his dubious control then and there at the realization she was enthralled by the merging for their bodies. It was too much… and not nearly enough. Shifting his hips, he withdrew from her body completely, the loss of her wet warmth making him shudder and making her whimper her unhappiness. Toeing off his shoes, he gathered the hem of her dress in his hands and stripped it from her while kicking his own pants and boxers aside. In a single motion, he swept her off the table and lifted her into his arms. He needed to feel her skin pressed to his, her legs wrapped around his hips, her hands in his hair, his lips covering her. Turning with her, he pressed her back to the wall, then thrust back into her depths.

"Laura," he murmured. Lips covering hers, he savored her taste. His hands roamed, palming a breast, teasing a nipple, caressing her side, massaging her bum, as his body plunged in and out of hers. He groaned, deep and gutturally, when he felt her legs tighten around her hips, her fingers dig into his back, telling him she was near. Desperate for her to climax before he found his own release, he latched his mouth over her collarbone and suckled long and firm.

Her entire body shook as the intense orgasm washed over her. The feel of her tight passage quaking, clenching his shaft, her fingers digging into his back, her hot breath against his ear, sent him careening over the edge. With a final thrust, he buried himself as deeply as he could while breathing her name.

They retired to a hot bath in the mammoth tub offered as one of the suite's many amenities. In a switch of their far more common positions, he lounged between her legs, head resting against her shoulder, his eyes closed, as she drew a soapy rag over his skin.

"I have to hand it to you, Laura," he announced, "It was the perfect evening."

"A considerable improvement over our last trip to San Francisco, at least," she acknowledged.

"I was thinking much the same myself earlier," he admitted, suddenly sitting up and sliding forward. "As much as he enjoyed her attentions - and as roomy as the tub was - his lanky frame prevented him from stretching out comfortably. "Switch with me, love." Warmth infused her at the endearment he'd begun using more and more often since New York City. As her skin pinked with pleasure, she wondered if she'd ever get used to him addressing her in such a manner. She secretly hoped not, and the term would continue to make her feel as important to him as she did this very moment.

"This is nice," she hummed, as she settled between his legs and leaned her back to his front. She smiled as he simultaneously toed the hot water faucet, turning it on, and reached for the washcloth.

"Perhaps we should stay a bit longer then, hmmmm?" he suggested. "What time do we depart tomorrow?"

"Our flight's at six. We should be home by eight, I imagine." Closing her eyes, she nuzzled her head against his shoulder, and quietly yawned. She adored moments such as these, both of them relaxed, enjoying one another's company. Her hand caressed the outside of his thigh.

"Tired?" She laughed softly.

"Someone was restless last night," she reminded him, with another yawn. He toed off the faucet and set aside the washcloth.

"You should have said something," he admonished, lightly. Grasping her waist beneath the water, he prepared to assist her to her feet. Instead of standing, she turned to face him, straddling his lap. She touched her lips against the side of his neck, before settling in to stroke his shoulders rhythmically.

"Uh-uh," she refused, her brown eyes simmering with desire. "Tonight, I'm the one who's restless." The corners of his lips twitched with mirth, even as his eyes darkened with arousal. Beneath the water, his hands stroked the sensitive skin of her waist, making her twitch.

"Sounds like a nice…" he tapped his lips to her cheek "…slow…" then to the other "…massage is in order, hmmmmm?" She raised her brows at him and drew a splayed hand down his chest. Dipping below the water line, she stroked a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy.

"I was thinking more along the lines of quid pro quo," she corrected. A laugh rumbled deep in his chest.

"Well, I _do_ believe in equality…"

His hands grasped the cheeks of her bum, and he drug her closer.

Only the gentle lap of water against the side of the tub and pleasure filled moans and sighs could be heard for some time to come.

* * *

Despite the lateness of the hour when they'd finally tumbled into bed the evening prior, when Remington peeked open an eye at shortly after seven, he found the bed beside him quite empty. Climbing from bed, he tugged on his robe, leaving it open, as he stepped out of the bedroom into the living area, where he found Laura curled up in the corner of the couch sipping coffee and reading tourist brochures.

"I ordered hot tea and scones, as well," she announced. Pausing at the cart, he poured himself a cup of tea, then leaned down and bussed the top of her head before joining her on the opposite end of the couch.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"More like, hoping to make the most out of the time we have here today." She handed him a few of the brochures for his consideration.

"Alcatraz, eh?" he commented as he perused the brochure. " _Point Blank_ , Lee Marvin, Angie Dickinson, Carroll O'Connor, MGM, 1967. After being double-crossed by his best friend and left for dead on Alcatraz, a man sets out to even the score."

"Lemme guess," she ventured with a roll of her eyes, "You want to spend the day at Alcatraz reliving the glory of every old movie made there." He, in turn, gave her a horrified look.

"Merely sharing the first movie made there on location," he qualified. "I can assure you, I've no interest in visiting a prison for any reason... whatsoever."

"Afraid they might decide to keep you?" she deadpanned. He could help his slight chuckle, bestowing her with an affronted look in spite of his laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous," he admonished. "As you're well-aware, I've been trodding the straight-and-narrow for some time now." Slanting her eyes in his direction, she fingered her throat.

"It seems to me," she drawled, "That your straight-and-narrow has been riddled with detours."

"That may well be, but none of those detours would lead to the pokey… at least not here in the States," he amended as his antics with the Hapsburg Dagger came to mind. "So, does anything in particular strike your fancy?" he asked, holding up the brochures.

"I don't know," she mulled. "The Wharf, I think. We could stroll the marketplace, check out the sea lions, have a late lunch at 9 Fisherman's Grotto then finish the afternoon at the Ghirardelli Choc… Choc… Choc …"

"Chocolate?" he supplied helpfully, with an amused smirk.

"…Marketplace before we leave for the airport. What do you think?" Tipping back his cup, he finished his tea, then set cup and saucer on the table as he stood.

"I'll go get ready," he answered in agreement. He stopped before her and held out a hand. "Care to join me for a hot shower?"

Setting aside her coffee cup and the brochures, she took his hand. What better way to start the day than having him under her hands?

* * *

Much as Laura had predicted, she and Remington arrived home shortly after eight that evening. The day, by both of their assessments had been perfect, the hours filled with plenty of sunshine and fresh air, amazing sights and a more-than-satisfying lunch at the Grotto. Remington had found a couple of wines from local vineyards that had piqued his interest, while Laura had purchased pounds of chocolate at Ghirardelli, unable to resist the vast array of the favored treat offered up by the store.

Several times throughout the day, she cast her eyes, below her lashes, towards him. She'd grown used to his habit over the last year of matching his suits, ties and pocket squares to whatever it was she'd selected to wear on the day whenever the opportunity arose. From the start she'd found the subtle hint by him that they were a couple very, very… appealing. But today, he'd taken it even a step further, matching her black and white checked shirt with red accents with a black, grey, white and red plaid oxford of his own. Apparently, he drew the line at red pants like the ones she was wearing, opting instead for a pair of black, pleated slacks.

The image of the fashion conscious Mr. Steele in red pants tickled her imagination and she laughed softly, drawing his eyes to her.

"Find something amusing?" he questioned, as the lock sprung. Removing it, he slid open the loft door.

"Just thinking Frances would be green with envy over all the choc… choc…"

"Chocolate."

"…I bought today," she fabricated.

"Mmmmm," he answered with a nod of his head. He held out an arm, indicating she should enter while he picked up their bags. "Speaking of Frances, what is you have to do for her that required you be back in LA this evening?" he wondered as he crossed the living room and ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

"Come down and you'll see," she called back to him. After dropping their bags on her bed, he joined her in the kitchen, making a face at the various aquariums, bowls and cages scattered across her kitchen counter.

"Yeesh," he made a face at the menagerie even as he opened the lid to the aquarium holding a snake and picked it up, examining it at eye level. Dropping it back in its container, he looked at it with disgust, then moved on greeting the parakeet.

"My sister wanted me to take care of the children's pets while they were on vacation…" she explained as she read the instructions left behind by Frances. _You'd think she'd have told me how much to feed them!_ she groused to herself.

"Uh-huh. Charming collection." The tone of his voice made it clear he thought it was anything but.

"Well," she replied, vigorously shaking the container of fish food over the glass bowl where two goldfish resided, "I just hope none of them dies on me. Frances would have a fit."

"Mmmm-hmmm. Uh, I suggest you cut back on those flakes unless you want to see a goldfish explode," he advised. She frowned down at the bowl, wondering how it could be possibly be too much food.

It was at that moment the form of Vinnie Dowd crashed through the kitchen window and landed at the feet of the stunned pair of detectives.


	13. Chapter 13: Options

Chapter 13: Options

Remington tapped his foot anxiously as he and Laura sat before Streatfeild's currently vacant desk. Streatfeild had called a little more than an hour before, asking that they come into the office as the INS had responded to the request for adjustment of status and there were a few details he and Remington needed to go over.

Laura had seemed unphased by the request, even now sitting placidly in the chair next to him, her hands folded serenely in her lap. But years of running the con and orchestrating heists had taught him good news is delivered over the phone – "I have it in hand, mate" - whereas bad news was delivered in person – "We've had an unexpected complication..." The only comfort he could find in having been summoned to the austere offices of the law practice was the one exception to the bad news rule: Disastrous news was, too, delivered by phone. "Sorry, mate, things are too hot. Find someone else for the job."

Bad news was imminent. He felt it to his bones. The only question remaining was what other options might remain that Streatfeild wished to see him in person.

His thoughts were interrupted when Laura lay a hand on his thigh. His eyes fell on her hand. If she was hoping to distract him, touching him in such an intimate manner was most certainly the way to accomplish that. His eyes traveled from her hand to her face.

"That's not helping," she admonished, staring straight ahead.

She wasn't as unaffected by the summons as he believed her to be. At the moment she was busy counting regrets. The time lost after Cannes. The time lost the summer prior. All their walls, all their fears, that had taken so long to get past… for the most part. The number of times she'd chosen business over pleasure. The number of quiet evenings interrupted by Mildred or business… or both. Not cancelling on Frances, rescheduling their meetings, so they could have enjoyed the long weekend in San Francisco. A multitude of regrets.

But taking the Dowd case wasn't amongst them, for despite the cost to their personal time she'd agree to take the case _for him_. He'd been taken with the short, rotund little man and his unbelievable tale of framing himself for the kidnapping of fitness guru Lance LeBlanc. Taken enough that he'd not only given it a considerable amount of thought but had actually performed some research _on his own_. His eyes had positively twinkled with unconcealed curiosity and amusement. Then, in the back of her mind she couldn't help but wonder: If she turned the case down, would they ever work another together should the INS choose to deport? That gut-clenching realization had helped her set aside her doubts and she'd agreed to take the case. And what a case it had been, filled with murder, mayhem, multiple villains and a dirty cop.

No, that she didn't regret. It had meant a great deal to him that she'd taken a case, against her better instincts, for no other reason than he'd wanted to.

She flinched under his watchful eyes when the door to Streatfeild's office opened and he stepped into the room, his hand immediately extended to exchange greetings. They were both thankful the attorney got straight down to business once he sat behind his desk.

"The INS has denied your request for Adjustment of Status," he announced, holding his hands out in apology. Remington swallowed hard, and bobbed his head up and down rapidly in answer.

"Did they say why?" This from Laura.

"They cited the irregularities on the passport under which Mr. Steele last arrived in country, as well as the length of time he's been in the States, during which time he's never sought to make his status here legal," Streatfeild supplied. "Unfortunately, their stance makes me believe the hearing Friday is no more than a formality," he turned to Remington, "And they will press for your ejection from the country. That's the bad news." Remington laughed low in his throat, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he watched the life he'd built here crumbled into the Pacific.

"There has to be something we can do!" Laura protested, "Another way!"

"There are still a few options, two of which could change your status in the country immediately, " Streatfeild confirmed.

"Such as?" Laura inquired, leaning slightly closer towards the man in interest.

"Do you have a close relative here in the United States who is a citizen?" Streatfeild questioned.

"So far as I know—" Laura laid her hand on Remington's arm, stopping him.

"As a matter of fact, his second cousin, Donald ,is married to my sister. That's how we met." Remington's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he played along with her gambit to see where it would lead.

"Yes, but to ask him to _sponsor_ me? That may be a bit much to ask, don't you think?" Laura swiveled her head to look at him.

"I can't imagine it would require very much from him," she faced Streatfeild again. "Would it?"

"Not at all. There'd be some paperwork to fill out, and the INS would want birth certificates to prove the relationship," the attorney offered.

"I'll think about it," Remington promised, lifting a hand and raising a single finger to accompany his qualification, "But only as a last resort. I'd hate to ask even that much of him if I didn't need to. You said a few options?"

"There's marriage to a U.S. Citizen, of course." Remington didn't like the raise of Laura's brows, the way she leaned slightly closer towards the lawyer's desk. "I have to warn you, though, the INS frowns on marriages of convenience and given you're already under investigation, I can pretty much guarantee a sudden wedding would place any marriage under intense scrutiny. You could expect multiple interviews for you and your spouse, they'll want names of any friends or family members who can attest to an ongoing relationship and the INS will likely not only monitor the marriage but make several unannounced visits to your domicile."

"How long would they do that for?" Laura wondered, her fingers stroking the base of her throat in thought.

"Up to two years, should they flag Mr. Steele's file."

"What else?" Remington stepped in.

"The third is the Simpson-Mazzoli bill. It's already been passed by the Senate and the House is expect to do the same during the fall session." Remington and Laura exchange looks.

"And what's that?" Remington inquired.

"It's seen as a landmark change in immigration law, allowing any alien who can prove they established a domicile in the United States prior to January 1, 1982 to apply for citizenship immediately." Streatfeild stood, and rounding his desk, leaned against the corner of it, while crossing his arms. "If our positions were reversed, this is the route I would choose to take."

"What's it involve?"

"Taking into consideration the likely conclusion of the hearing on Friday, I'd recommend voluntary deportation prior to the hearing. Then, once the bill passes, you'll file for citizenship based on Simpson-Mazzoli." Laura's head snapped from Streatfeild to Remington.

"And how long would he have to voluntarily deport for?" she asked, voice tight. Streatfeild held open a pair of hands.

"Seven-and-a-half, eight months, maybe." Remington visibly grimaced and his stomach turned into knots. _Months?_ Panic began to take root.

"He has a business here," she pointed out. _And me_ , she added silently.

"How long do I have to make a decision?" Remington asked, rubbing at his neck.

"No more than twenty-four hours. We'd have to move quickly on either of the first two options, and if you choose the last option, I'd recommend you deport yourself within the next forty-eight hours as a show of respect to the laws you _unwittingly_ violated." Remington nodded his head, before getting to his feet and offering Streatfeild a hand.

"I'll let you know." He turned to Laura, who seemed to have checked out. "Miss Holt?" he nudged, offering his hand. She blinked up and him, then her eyes cleared. Standing, she exchanged handshakes with Streatfeild, thanking him for his help.

As Laura and Remington stood side-by-side on the elevator, shocked silence stood thick between them.

* * *

Laura sprung up off the couch in Remington's flat and walked, with determination, towards the phone.

"I'll call Donald right now. He'll-"

How they'd made it through their afternoon appointments, she had no idea. She'd been tense and short-tempered. He'd been sullen and withdrawn. Yet each time a client walked through his office door, they'd seamlessly donned their professional cloaks. It had been comforting, in a way, falling into the familiarity of roles.

It was during the time between appointments that the air had grown oppressively thick with the weight of the decision looming ahead.

"Laura, wait!" Remington called to her, vaulting forward he grabbed her lower arm before she could turn the corner around the sofa. His hand slid down her arm, and he grasped her hand, giving it a tug. "Come. Sit back down." With a huff of frustration, she returned to the couch and picked up her glass of wine.

They'd wordlessly agreed to retire to Remington's flat. His offers to make or order dinner had been turned down, but the offer of a glass of wine had been accepted.

"Have you any idea what this suggestion entails?" he pursued. "We'd have to create, overnight, any number of birth certificates to prove Donald's relation to me. One mistake, just one, and some overeager bureaucrat could ferret out the deception—"

"Then I'd suggest you aim for perfection," she snapped. He took to his feet to pace.

"Need I remind you that it was an anomaly in documentation that's brought us here in the first place?" Her spine immediately straightened and fire flashed in her eyes.

"You were stranded in London! A man without a country! That passport got you back into the United States!" she defended.

"And much as I appreciated your efforts then, I do now. But that's not the point, Laura! The point is—" He watched as she launched herself from the couch and stormed towards the bedroom, then gave pursuit. "The point is," he repeated, willing himself to remain calm, "Should our deception be discovered, it wouldn't be just my neck on the line, but Donald's as well."

"I should have known," she muttered angrily, tugging her shirt hem out from beneath the waist of her skirt, then rapidly unbuttoning it. In spite of himself, he found his own temper piquing at the condemnation in her voice.

"What exactly is it you should have known?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, his narrowed eyes upon her. She slung her shirt onto the bed.

"You!" She threw her hands up into the air, then turned her attention to the zipper on her skirt. "What happened to the man who told me…"

* * *

" _ **I was hoping you'd teach me how to stand and fight."**_

* * *

He sputtered his indignation, as her skirt joined her shirt and she began to wriggle out of her panty hose.

"What is you think I'm doing, Laura?!" he retorted, voicing rising.

"The same thing you always do!" With a growl of frustration, she spun to face the dresser, yanking open a drawer. "DesCoine, Cannes, London! Your first instinct is to bow out, to cut and run, no matter the cost!" She yanked on a pair of running shorts, then pulled on a t-shirt as she crossed the room to the closet. He was left speechless by the accusation, staring at her in disbelief. "What happened to the man who _promised_ me…"

* * *

" _ **I'm not going anywhere, Laura."**_

* * *

She leveled a pair of injured, accusatory brown eyes upon him as she slipped her feet into a pair of tennis shoes.

"I had hoped your life here as Remington Steele… that _we_ … had come to mean enough to you that you'd fight for it! Clearly, I was mistaken." With a single, decisive nod of her head, she shoved past him and left the bedroom, making a beeline for the front door and snatching her car keys and purse off the credenza. With a stunned shake of his head, he again followed, just in time to see her reach for the doorknob.

"Laura, don't run away. We need—"

"You taught me how!" she bitingly replied.

The resounding clap of the door slamming behind her retreating form echoed through the room.

With a pair of fingers pressed against his lips, he remained motionless in the center of the room, staring at the door.

* * *

Remington heaved a sigh of relief. Yanking the wheel of the Auburn hard to the left, the rear tires light squealed as they skidded against the asphalt of the road.

He'd waited for Laura to come home from her run, hoping that by the time she returned she'd have calmed sufficiently to carry on a reasonable discussion. Only, she'd never appeared. The phone at the loft had rung endlessly with no response, again and again… then again. Finally, he'd changed into jeans, polo shirt and tennis shoes, he'd scrawled a quick note in case she returned, then had taken off in search.

The loft had been his first stop, naturally. He'd taken the three flights of stairs two-steps at a time, arriving short of breath at the padlocked door. Although the Rabbit hadn't been in the parking lot, and there was no possible way to padlock the door from the inside of her home, he'd still used his key to gain entrance, and, as expected, had found the loft empty. When a call to his flat had yielded no answer, he'd left a second handwritten note taped to the handset of the phone, should she come home before he'd located her. A stop by Century Towers had yielded much the same results. McArthur Park, followed by a drive-by of the loft and office, who's lights remained resolutely off. A stop at a bank of payphones, three calls, none of which were answered. The observatory, another trip round the loft and office, then Venice Pier and its surrounding parking lots.

Frances's? _No, she wouldn't wish to give those explanations._

Mildred's? _No, she would risk inviting a pair of well-meaning but prying eyes following us about wherever we go for days after._

Another stop at the payphones, yielding no different results. She was neither at the gym she frequented on occasion nor was she at her favored pizza parlor. Nearing midnight, finding the loft and office still stubbornly dark, he'd finally conceded defeat and had pointed the Auburn towards the Rossmore. His shock when he'd seen the Rabbit parked conspicuously in visitor parking had been the cause of the inadvertent wear and tear on his tires.

As the elevator lumbered upwards towards the fifth floor, he was equally relieved and alarmed. Relieved, certainly, that she was safe, well and awaiting his return upstairs, much as his note requested. Alarmed because they'd somehow seemed to switch roles: She responding to her emotions and running from answers that would have to be faced sooner than later; He assessing the situation at hand critically, considering what it was he _wished_ to do, against the possible cataclysmic future consequences for acting rashly.

He didn't care for the role reversal, not at all. He needed her cool logic to prevail, to convince him what he knew in his heart to be the right choice was also the rational one… a choice they could both find a way to work with, live with.

And, in the back of his mind, a single question persisted: Why didn't Laura understand he was at last doing what she'd needed him to do for years…

* * *

" _ **I count in all this!**_ "

* * *

It had been his greatest failing over the years, remembering Laura's needs in situations reminiscent of the one in which they now found themselves. In the past he'd resorted to plots, ploys and subterfuge, convincing himself he was… protecting her, in a way, by keeping her in the dark. Surely, she could see the honor in him keeping her safe from the likes of Hoskins, the Palermo brothers... so long discovering he was hiding something from here. Then...

 _Not_ that his prior decisions to hide his problems from her was solely born of chivalry. There had been a good amount of… cowardice... in the mix as well. Before that first year in LA had concluded, the life he'd begun building for himself here had come to mean a great deal to him, and it was Laura who stood at the center of it all. She'd made no secret that she saw his past as a threat to their future, so when that past came traipsing about it was his first instinct to conceal it from her.

And what was this current conundrum they found themselves in if not a product of his past? The man with no name who'd slipped from persona-to-persona as he'd haunted the shady side of the street, using those five passports with a smug smile upon his face, believing he was putting one over on each country to which he'd traveled. Could he truly be surprised his very inability to show his arrival on these hallowed shores would now be the very reason he'd be forced to leave?

Swinging open the door to his flat, his eyes slanted immediately to the credenza. Some of the tension he'd borne in his shoulders these last hours departed upon seeing Laura's purse and keys lying there. Securing the front door behind him, his keys joined hers on the table as he walked directly to the balcony, the slight flutter of the sheers behind the drapes at the French doors beckoning him.

"I'm sorry," her voice called to him in the dim light, the shakiness of her voice belying her fear he might not overlook her earlier outburst. Eyes adjusting, he found her at the far end of the balcony, staring out at the twinkling lights of Hancock Park. Shoving his hands in his pockets he cautiously crossed the space between them, unsure of what emotions, accusations might arise in the next minutes. "Just tell me why," she implored in a voice so soft he barely heard the words standing less than an arm's length from her.

"Because we do it right the first time. Isn't that what you've been trying to get through my thick head for the last four years?" he answered in a voice echoing the restraint of hers. His heart stumbled when he watched as her shoulders began to visibly shake. He was thrust off-balance when she turned and stepped into his arms. He'd gotten enough of a glimpse of her face to see her lashes were damp, but she wasn't sobbing as he'd feared… rather she was laughing.

"You choose to finally understand that _now?_ When I'm the one prepared to take whatever shortcuts we need to?" He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his cheek against the side of her head.

"A bit of lousy timing on my part, eh?" he observed with a remorseful laugh, his brows knitting as he acknowledged the course they'd just agreed upon. "Will you at least promise to come visit on occasion? I hear you can fly almost anywhere for ninety-nine dollars with the excursion fares these days." Her fingers flexed against his chest. She willed the smile onto her face, into her eyes, before she tipped back her head and looked up at him.

"Only if you promise to show me some of your favorite places in Europe when I do." He pressed his lips to her forehead, allowed them to linger.

"Deal," he agreed. Lifting her hair over her shoulder, he palmed her cheek. "I give you my word, Laura, I'll be back."

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Steele."

She tugged his head down, pressing herself against him when their lips met.


	14. Chapter 14: Preparations

Chapter 14: Preparations

Laura carefully untangled her leg from between Remington's then gently eased out of his embrace. She shrugged her robe on as she silently left the bedroom and crossed Remington's flat to the kitchen. Mindlessly, she filled the kettle on the stove then set out a saucer, cup and spoon.

She wouldn't have wished this day on even her worst of enemies.

When they'd arrived at the Agency this morning, they'd locked the front doors and then had ushered Mildred into Remington's office, neither of them having taken the time to recognize such an approach would render Mildred a nervous wreck by the time they settled her into a chair in front of his desk. Remington and Laura stood front and center before her, leaning their backsides against the desk.

"What? What is it?" she asked anxiously, wringing her hands. Despite her distress, her eyes zeroed in on Laura's hand as it reached for Remington's. Instead of finding the gesture heartwarming, as she normally would, it only added to her feeling of alarm. She knew a gesture of support when she saw it. Her eyes flew upwards, to dart back-and-forth between their faces.

"We have some news, Mildred," Laura announced. Her eyes met his, then at seeing the go ahead in his eyes, she dropped the bombshell. "Mr. Steele's decided that it would be best if he voluntarily deports himself." Mildred looked at the pair of detectives quizzically.

"Volun—" Then it struck her. " _Deport?!_ " she repeated, voice rising. "You're leaving us, Boss?"

"For a spell," he confirmed. Mildred's eyes narrowed at the vague response.

"How long exactly is a spell?" she asked suspiciously.

"Only six, maybe eight—"

"Days?!" She cut him off. With a wave of her, a smile lit her face. "That ain't nothing. I'll just push back—"

"Months, Mildred," Laura corrected. Mildred's face crumpled. Even as she'd begun to prattle, she'd known she was fooling herself. This little tete-a-tete meant bad things were brewing.

"Months?" she cried out. Jumping up, she threw herself at him, wrapping him in a bear hug. "Oh, Boss!" He awkwardly patted her back while casting Laura a stricken look, beseeching her help. Laura pushed herself up to a standing position and laid a hand on Mildred's arm.

"It'll fly by," she prevaricated, soothingly. Stepping behind her, she gripped Mildred's upper arms firmly, encouraging her to let go of Remington and come with her. They sat down on the couch together. "Summer's right around the corner, then before you know it, Labor Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas are here. And not much after that, Mr. Steele will be as well." She took Mildred's hand in hers and gave it a little pat, as Remington perched a hip on the armrest behind her.

"Just think of all the work you'll get done without having me around underfoot, wishing to be catered to," he teased. Mildred's lower lip jutted out.

"I know I give you a hard time sometimes," she pouted, "But _I like_ taking care of you. What happened?"

"The INS can't seem to get past that questionable passport, and given I can't provide the passport for Remington Steele for when he arrived on these shore…" He ended the explanation with a helpless gesture of his hands.

"Then how will you come back?" she worried.

"Congress is passing a measure in the fall that will allow Mr. Steele to apply for full citizenship. He just has to wait it out," Laura answered, feigning a confidence she didn't feel. "I'll take a few long weekends to check up on him, make sure he's behaving," Remington winked at her in answer to the jab, "And the meantime, it will be business as usual around here, although I'll need you to pitch in a little more."

"Oh, honey, you know I don't mind," Mildred assured, before she turned her eyes to Remington. "But I won't see you until after the New Year?" she lamented. "Can't you even get a three day pass?"

"'Fraid not." Mildred's lip jutted out again.

"When do you leave?" she asked, timidly.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow morning." She launched herself to her feet again, her hands flying up to lay on her cheeks.

"Tomorrow morning!?" she wailed. Laura looked from Remington to Mildred, then back to Remington again, her eyes lingering on him. What had made she and Remington believe, if even for only a heartbeat, that they'd be able to conduct business as usual today? Seeing the strain building around his eyes, she made an executive decision.

"Mildred, clear the schedule until tomorrow at ten. I'm treating the three of us to an early lunch then Mr. Steele and I are taking the rest of the day."

Lunch had ended with Mildred shedding a torrent of tears and Remington visibly squirming beneath all the hugs and kisses she'd bestowed upon him before Laura had managed ease the older woman away.

They'd debated how to spend the day and in the end had chosen to simply retire to his flat. Avoid it thought they might prefer to do, but reality was closing in upon them: In less than twenty-hours he'd board the plane for Ireland.

As they'd packed two suitcases, a garment bag and his overnight bag, they'd carried on small talk, anxiously awaiting Streatfeild's call. Remington had called the attorney bright and early that morning, filling the man in on the choice that had been made. At Laura's insistence, Remington had requested Streatfeild gain assurances from the INS that should he voluntarily deport himself, then come time to apply for full citizenship, the INS would not oppose the application. Should the INS deny that request, they had no idea what they'd do.

Packing had been a painful process for both of them. What should he take, what should he leave behind? His black silk robe that Laura had taken to wearing when they stayed at his flat?

"Take it," she'd insisted. "It'll be one less thing I have to pack when I come visit."

He'd insisted only his most casual of clothes would be packed: Jeans, polos, oxfords, sweaters, slacks and khakis, along with his leather jacket, leather coat, and a wool trench coat. She'd had other ideas, insisting that he pack at least a few of his suits.

"You never know what may come up that you'll need one."

When the last bag had been zipped and snapped closed, they'd turned to his kitchen, filling box-after-box with food from the cabinets, refrigerator and freezer that would sit untouched in the months to come. While Fred had delivered those boxes to the Lost Souls Mission, Remington had whipped up several dishes that could easily be stored in Laura's freezer and quickly rewarmed when she needed a good meal.

As he'd puttered about in the kitchen, his mood had spiraled further downward, until he was downright melancholy. He'd grown accustomed to hearing Laura pattering about as he prepared their dinner. Some nights she'd simply sit on the sofa, enjoying a glass of wine as she watched the news or read a book. On other nights, she'd sit at the dining room table, pouring over case files, bouncing ideas about a case off of him as he cooked. But no matter what she chose to do, he'd find her perched, at least for a spell, on the corner of the island, snitching slices of vegetables while they conversed.

As he'd slid a pan of lasagna into the oven, he couldn't help but recognize this was the last time he'd cook in his kitchen, at least for the foreseeable future. Of all the rooms in his flat, this was the one he'd taken the most time on, carefully selecting each sauté pan, each utensil, every bit of crockery. It had taken near on a year to stock the room with every implement he might need. He'd installed glass racks, the overhead pot rack, with his own two hands. There was no speculation, _in his kitchen_ , about where he might find what he needed. He could simply reach blindly and find it exactly where it was meant to be.

Soon it, as well as she, would be far out of his reach.

Sensing his mood, not that a blind street vendor could have missed it, when the last of the meals had been wrapped and stored in his freezer, she'd taken him by the hand and had led him to the bedroom, where she'd made love to him until he'd gathered her close to him and had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

Sleep had, however, fully eluded her.

Now, as she sat tucked in the corner of his couch, cup of tea in hand, she stared at the bags waiting at the ready by the credenza. In a little less than five hours, his plane would lift off from LAX… and he'd be gone. It made it somehow worse that neither of them would be able to look back on their final day together with any form of fondness, hemmed in as they'd been by their apprehension and fears. Streatfeild's call that the INS had agreed to support Remington's application for citizenship, given his voluntary deportation, had offered some, but little, assurance. He'd be able to return, but no one could provide the answer to the question they both desperately needed to know: When?

Time was the enemy. They, more so than most, knew how quickly life could turn on a dime, how events far beyond their control could sweep them away, changing the course of their lives, in some way, forever. Remington's mere presence in LA, nearly four years after he'd arrived, was a testament to that…

As was the INS's very arrival in their lives.

She'd been unable to fall asleep as all the 'if only's' had swirled through her mind.

 _If only_ … she hadn't insisted on the Agency contracting with Vigilance. Had she not done that, Norman Keyes would never have been driven to eliminate Remington Steele from his life. There would have been anonymous tip to the INS and Remington would have remained blissfully under their radar.

 _If only…_ she'd been more diligent when securing that passport for him. She'd been so caught up in how he might react to her symbolic offering that the name was his to keep, if he so wished, that she hadn't checked then re-checked each detail of the application as she normally would have. Would she have caught that slip: Birthplace Ireland? She couldn't help but believe that she would have.

 _If only…_

Setting her tea cup and saucer on the coffee table, she fled to the balcony where cool and calming gulps of fresh air awaited her. Remington was hanging on to his precarious self-control by a thread and could not afford to find her breaking down.

 _If only…_ she hadn't ended things between them the year before, for that decision was the well from which all the rest bubbled up. How long would they be made to pay for that singularly foolish act?

She didn't know, and that was the most frightening truth of all.


	15. Chapter 15: Departing

Chapter 15: Parting

Remington had awakened the moment Laura slipped from his arms. Understanding she needed some time alone with her thoughts, without worrying over him to distract her, he'd played a bit of cat-and-mouse, feigning sleep until she left the room. He'd ferreted out the familiar sounds: The teapot clanking against the metal burner of the gas stove; a tea cup and saucer being set on the island; a cabinet opening and closing; the whistle of the tea pot. After, there had been silence except for the occasional tink as the porcelain of the tea cup came in contact with the porcelain saucer. Other than that, silence for the longest of times, until he heard the soft snick of the French doors opening.

Rolling to his back, he no longer even bothered with the pretense of sleep. When she was ready to talk, he'd be there waiting with an open arm.

A little more than an hour had passed before he heard the sound of the lock on the French doors engaging then her silhouette had appeared in the bedroom doorway. He held out an arm to her, and without hesitation, allowed her robe to billow to the floor. Soon, the bare flesh of her front was pressed against the equally bare skin of his side, her head nestled beneath his shoulder.

"Tell me," she requested. He hadn't need to wonder what it was she was asking. He'd known straight along she'd ask him the details of his plans when she was prepared to hear them… and not a moment before.

"I'll arrive in Dublin this evening. I'll take the late boat to England, then a train to London. Daniel is, for the moment, in residence at his townhouse. I'll stay there for a few days, or however long it takes to decide where I'll hang my hat for the next months." Her head bobbed up and down against his chest.

"Does Daniel know you're coming?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," he confirmed with a hum. "Although not the specifics as to why." He felt the furrow of her brow against his chest.

"I imagine he'll jump for joy, finally having you back at his side." He laughed quietly in the darkened room, and rubbed a hand at his mouth.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he speculated. "From what he's said these past months, he's given up the game."

" _Daniel?_ " A snort of disbelieving laughter followed. "Do you honestly believe that?" He shrugged a shoulder.

"I've never known him to lie to me before. The Earl certainly seems to believe Daniel's been doing a bang-on job upgrading the security systems at his estates." The musical notes of her laughter filled the air in response to that bit of news.

"Speaking of the fox and the hen—" Her words stopped abruptly. Pushing herself up on an elbow, she peered down at him. "I wasn't aware you and the Earl had kept in contact." With a lift of his brows, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he saw his opportunity and took it. Rolling her to her back, he shifted and stretched his lean frame over hers. She'd made love to him most thoroughly earlier, and he was a man who believed in equality.

"We've spoken now and again," he admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear as he studied her face. Unable to resist, he bent down his head to sample a taste of her lips. "It was he who reached out to me, not the other way around, in case you wonder." The corners of her lips quirked upwards. He knew her too well. Fleeting, though it had been, the thought had, indeed, been there. Her fingers circled the side, then tip, of his ear, before a single finger had slowly blazed a whisper soft trail behind the back of his ear then down his neck.

"A story for another time?" she suggested, her sultry tone confirming the quiet desire he found in her eyes.

"Another time," he agreed.

With a smile, she tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his head downwards until their lips met…

* * *

The driver side door on the limo clunked shut behind Fred as he vacated the vehicle, leaving Laura and Remington alone while their trusted chauffer saw to Remington's luggage. Laura had been uncommonly quiet on the drive from the Rossmore to LAX, a time when she'd normally she'd hammer him with a barrage of well-meaning questions.

"Do you have your passport?"

"Have you checked your tickets?"

"Did you forget anything? Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb…"

He reached for her hand, tangled their fingers together, before giving the hand held in his a squeeze.

"Nothing more than a long business trip, eh?" he suggested, infusing his voice with an optimism he didn't at all feel.

"You don't take business trips without me," she pointed out, her mind clearly elsewhere.

"Work with me here, Laura," he cajoled. "A trip back home to visit the family… One of my occasional side trips—" He frowned at having made mention of those trips that had happened early on after he'd ingratiated himself into her life. Always a source of contention, he decided he'd be wise to clarify. " _Trips_ ," he raised a finger in emphasis, "Might I add, that I've not engaged in for a considerable length of –"

"Marry me."

She felt the slight tremor that race through his body at her words, sitting hip-to-hip and leg-to-leg as they were. She saw the emotion burning bright in his blue eyes in the moment before he pressed his forehead to hers and his hand cupped the back of her head.

He swallowed hard, knowing how hard it would be for her to hear the words he was about to say. Summoning up his courage, he pushed them past his lips.

"I can't."


	16. Chapter 16: Parting

**_A/N: Only two chapters this week - but equal three in length. I plan to take the AU Her Holt Heart back to weekend publishing, which means I'll be uploading more chapters this weekend should time be kind._**

* * *

Chapter 16: Parting

Laura was as shut down as Remington had ever seen her.

When he'd answered, 'I can't', her face had immediately gone blank and she given him a single, definitive nod of her head. She hadn't pursued the question any further, instead suggesting…

"Let's go get you checked-in, then. We're running behind and don't want you to miss your flight."

Oh, how he'd wanted to say 'bugger it all, I'm not going anywhere!' But that was no more an option than marrying her was.

He'd never felt so thoroughly boxed in, in the entirety of his life.

That blank look on her face that she still sported told him all he needed to know: She hadn't understood. She'd seen his answer as rejection. She was already placing emotional distance between them. How long before she fell into old habits and began to believe he was leaving her, abandoning his life here?

"Did you cancel your newspaper subscription?" she asked.

"Placed it on indefinite hold," he answered.

"Your mail?" The question drew his eyes to her. She was prone to turning towards to orderliness of lists, rules when she felt her life most out of her control.

"Forwarded to the Agency as you suggested. Laura—"

"Did you disconnect the cable?"

"Yes, yes," he confirmed, growing impatient. "Laura—"

"Did you bring something to read or a crossword puzzle to do on the flight?"

"No," he puffed his frustration, as he reached for her hand. "We need to—"

"There's a newsstand right there," she observed, with a nod across the concourse.

Before he could even blink her hand slipped from his and she was striding away. His jaw clenched as he leapt to his own feet, grabbing his overnight bag and slinging it over his shoulder. She flinched when his arm slithered around her waist and he quickly guided her away from the newsstand. Feet dragging, she looked longingly over her shoulder at the rapidly receding store.

"The paper—" she began to protest.

"I don't give a bloody damn about the paper, Lau-ra," he interrupted. "We need to talk." She stiffened beneath his touch.

"I think everything's been said, don't you?" she demanded in an undertone, as he turned them towards an alcove formed by the end of a line of lockers and the beginning of a short hallway. She slumped against the wall and crossed her arms. Chin tipping up mutinously, she averted her head, refusing to look at him. Dropping his overnight bag at his feet with a heavy sigh, he leaned against a single arm pressed to the wall next to her head.

The way they stood was eerily reminiscent of the scene a few months before outside of the LAPD. After he'd been framed by Harry Cranston, or whatever the man's real name was, and Reuben Saltzman for the theft of millions of dollars in diamonds, he'd sat in the confines of a cell waiting for Laura to appear, to offer her show of support. But she never had. Doubts of his innocence had crept into that facile mind of hers, and she'd wondered, for a spell, if he'd been part of the plot to rob the Diamond Exchange from the start.

* * *

" _ **You must admit, it's the perfect double con. You make me believe you've been set up. I work to get you out of it and then once we prove you're innocent, you split with Cranston and the others then…"**_

" _ **And then… What?"**_

" _ **And then you go away."**_

* * *

Cranston and his partners in crime had played to Laura's fears perfectly, ironically having no idea they were doing so. And now, so had Keyes.

"I don't wish to leave, Laura. _You know that_ ," he emphasized the last three words in an insistent undertone. Her head snapped around and for the first time since they'd stepped from the limo, that blank look left her face. He couldn't count it to his credit however, as a mixture of injury and anger flashed in her eyes.

"Do I?" she challenged. "You could stay."

"I can't _do that_ , Lau-ra." His voice held a plea for understanding.

"Just listen to me!" Her heart ached at the words she was about to say. "It'd be nothing more than a business arrangement." He stepped back from her as she spoke, and shifting with agitation, rubbed at his mouth. "We could go down to city hall—"

"No, Lau-ra, no, no, no," he jumped in, speaking much louder than he'd intended, drawing the eyes of others along the concourse. He made a concerted effort to lower his voice. "That's not an option."

"I see." The two words were all she could manage around her constricting throat. Mortified that she'd twice now asked to twice be turned down, her skin flushed, and her eyes blinked several times. He stepped in close to her, using a finger to nudge her chin upwards until her eyes met his.

"No, you _don't 'see,'_ which is precisely why _I can't_." He swiped a hand over his face in frustration, before planting it against the wall beside her head again. "We…" he motioned between them with his hand, "…can't be a business arrangement. It's taken us three years to get past this 'no mixing business with pleasure' nonsense, and I don't have it in me to go back to that again. I can't be married to you, share a home with you and not _have you_ —"

"It wouldn't be like that," she interrupted to protest.

"Maybe not at first," he responded, "But at some point I'll misstep or something will come along that convinces you we can't conduct this business arrangement and our personal relationship at the same time."

"That's not true," she answered, her words ringing hollow and unconvincing, even to herself. The answer, how she squirmed beneath the charge, was so typical of her, that it eased some of his tension and a corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a fond smile.

"It is true, and we both know it," he countered in a soft voice. Shifting beneath his gaze, she averted her eyes as her brow furrowed.

"It wouldn't have to be a business arrangement—" she offered, weakly, her stomach churning even as she made it. He was shaking his head before she finished.

"And then what?" he asked, quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I watch every day for the next two years as you count down how many days until I leave you? It would cost us everything we've fought so hard to have. It's not a risk I'm willing to take." He palmed her cheek in his hand. "Are you?" Her brown eyes blinked up at him as she considered his question. Finally, she shook her head slowly.

"No," she admitted, reluctantly. He pursed his lips, nodding, as he dropped his hand from the wall. He grew serious again.

"Laura, you've spent near on four years trying to drum in into my thick head, that when we do things the right way, no matter how difficult it might be, that we come out on top in the end. You've put all that matters most to you on the line, again and again, for me." He stepped in close, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her closer. To her credit, she didn't try to evade the embrace, although she remained stiff beneath his touch. "It's time for me to stand and fight, to risk all that matters most to me and do this thing the right way." With a long, heavy sigh she relaxed in his arms.

"Well, you certainly picked a lousy time to learn that lesson," she groused.

"The way I see it, we've survived far worse than a few months apart, haven't we?" he questioned with a teasing smile on his face. "Deranged individuals we've put away intent upon bringing about our early demise…" Her hands slid over his shoulder and she clasped her hands behind his neck, smiling for the first time since their arrival at LAX, never immune to his optimism and humor.

"Or framing you…" she added, playing along.

"Mmmm," he nodded gravely. "Old suitors dragging us into murder and mayhem…"

"Hopeful suitors with murderous intentions," she reminded. Eyes warming, she pressed closer to him. "A group of miners determined to assassinate the Earl…"

"A modern day Jack the Ripper…"

"Vengeful ghosts…" she grinned. He raised a single brow at her.

"Our insipid agreement in Cannes." She barked a surprised laugh, and slapped at his shoulder. A hand stroked her back as he sobered. "I'm not leaving you, Laura," he told her, his eyes again holding a plea for understanding. "I'm merely trying to give us a fighting chance." Her head fell forward and she rested her forehead against his chest. Her face crumpled, unseen, as she permitted herself a few seconds of profound regret. Then, shaking off her own self-pity, she nodded her head and lifted it to look at him. Her fingers toyed with his hair as she gave him the words she knew he needed to hear.

"You're right."

Heart pounding in his chest at her agreement, he crushed her to him, his lips landing on top of hers. Not giving a single damn who might be watching, he burrowed his hand in her hair and cupping the back of her head, kissed her with tender thoroughness. With a hum at the feeling of her nails lightly scraping against his scalp and her pliant body beneath his hands, he changed the angle of the kiss, delving deep. When the kiss ended, careful examination of her face showed the dazed ardor that he' hoped to discover in the depths of her eyes.

"Let's go get that paper," she suggested, after giving her head a small shake to clear her dazzled senses. With a low laugh, he dropped another quick kiss upon her lips, then lay a hand at the small of her back as they made their way back to the newsstand.

They hadn't even paid for their purchases – a newspaper and a Raymond Chandler novel he hadn't yet read – when the announcement came over the loud speakers that boarding for first-class passengers on his flight had begun. They exchanged glances but never said a word as he reached for her hand to steel himself for the coming parting.

They stood awkwardly at the gate, watching as passengers provided their boarding passes then disappeared down the gangway. Soon, it was he who provided his boarding pass, and was cleared to take the walk through the tunnel to the plane. They stepped to the side to say their goodbyes. Tugging the hand still held within his, he wrapped her in his embrace and pressed his cheek to hers.

"It's nothing more than a long business trip," he murmured, trying to reassure himself as much as her.

"You don't go on business trips without me," she countered, her voice strained.

"Work with me here, Laura," he pled, gruffly. She swallowed hard, then eased herself out of his embrace. She ran her hands down each of his arms, smoothing the fabric, then plucked off and discarded an imaginary piece of lint.

"Remember, Mr. Steele, keep your head down and stay out of trouble," she ordered, forcing a levity into her voice that she didn't feel.

"I might remind you to do the same, Miss Holt," he echoed the sentiment, bending his head down to drop a kiss onto her lips. Unable to resist stealing one, last embrace, he pulled her to him. He breathed in deeply, immersing himself in the scent of sunshine, honeysuckle and grass and vowed to commit the smell to his memory for the long days ahead. "Good God, I'm going to miss you. I'll call you once I arrive in Dublin."

With a firm buss to the top of her head, he was gone, blending in with the other passengers as they made their way down the gangway to the plane.


	17. Chapter 17: Spotlight

Chapter 17: Spotlight

Laura had vowed to herself after Remington disappeared into the misty night almost exactly a year prior that she'd never again find herself spending long, lonely days and nights worrying over her Mr. Steele's welfare. As she'd stood before the glass wall at LAX, watching as his plane took off then disappeared into the clouds above, she found little consolation in the fact that at least this time she'd know where he was. In her mind, his old stomping grounds represented danger – both to his physical safety and his freedom. The Yard may have mysteriously overlooked the transgressions attached to those five names on his passports – Paul Fabrini, Michael O'Leary, Richard Blaine, Jean Murel and Douglas Quintain – but she and Remington had no proof, whatsoever, that the charges had been swept under the carpet.

And now, of course, the Yard was well aware the world renowned detective, Remington Steele, and all those men on the passports were one and the same.

With the exception of Daniel – Ha! Who'd have ever thought that? – and Monroe, she has zero faith that his prior acquaintances wouldn't sell him out to save their own necks. After all, hadn't that already been proven again and again over the years? Felicia blackmailing him into stealing the _Five Nudes of Cairo_ ; Felicia dragging him, quite literally, into an assassination scheme; Anna who'd been willing to kill him if it meant simplifying her own life; Chalky prepared to sell him out to the Yard for a bit of quid in his pocket and forgiveness of his own transgressions; and, of course, Candy, who had no only killed a mutual acquaintance but who'd had no qualms about putting his neck at risk as well.

His flight was due to land in Dublin at seven-forty-five Los Angeles time. Was it possible his passport had been flagged, awaiting his return to Europe, and even now the Yard, Interpol… whoever… was planning to greet him at the arrival gates and place him under arrest? It was not knowing the answer to that question which had left her snappish at the Agency all day, and wringing her hands, now, as she paced the loft.

How had he travelled all those years with such quiet aplomb, never fretting that _this trip_ might see his past catching up with him? In Acapulco it certainly had, and it had been only by the grace of God they'd had more to offer up, in the way of millions of dollars worth of diamonds, in exchange for the policia looking the other way on his former misdeeds. London, Ireland, Malta, Cannes. He'd played Russian roulette time-and-time again in their travels, and had come out on the winning side each time. Would he now?

For it wasn't only the Yard, Interpol, any of those policing agencies in Europe to be feared. He had in his previous life, after all, racked up more than his fair share of enemies. The Palermo brothers were dead, thanks to the dirty Inspector Vouvray, but who else was out there waiting in the shadows, just waiting to take their shot?

She was his partner. It was her job to watch his back, to keep him safe. How was she supposed to do that from halfway around the world. The image of him, gored by the metal fence posts, bleeding, feverish and in pain had pranced through her mind at least a dozen times throughout the day, leaving her hands trembling each time the memory arrived. If something similar happened again, she wouldn't be there to rescue him this time and where would that leave him?

A long business trip, her left foot, her agile mind kept reminding her. At every turn there seemed to be potential peril.

Eight-twenty-six her watch read. Where was he? Was he already languishing behind bars somewhere? No, no, no. He would have called her if that was the case, she reasoned. Still, the thought left her wringing her hands, again.

A knock at the door tore her from her thoughts and, although she'd just checked the time, the surprise visitor had her glancing at her watch again. With a forlorn glance at the still stubbornly silent phone, she marched to the door and tugged it open.

Instantly, her face hardened, her jaw clenched and she crossed her arms.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she demanded to know.

* * *

As Remington strode across the hotel lobby towards the bank of elevators, he soundly berated himself. Midnight boat to London, indeed. He'd been so distracted by his imminent departure that he, the world-wide traveler, hadn't taken into account the time difference between LA and Dublin. Thus, he'd landed on Irish soil at near on four in the morning rather than the eight in the evening he'd planned for.

It had been a buggering miserable flight. For the second time in little more than a year he'd discovered crossword puzzles were not nearly as enjoyable when Laura wasn't peering over his shoulder and volunteering unsolicited answers. His novel had been summarily tossed to the side when he'd found himself unconsciously listening for the turn of a page as Laura thumbed through the latest issue of _Time_ or _Newsweek_ , awaiting the soft touch of her hand upon his forearm when something in particular caught her attention and she wished to share. And, to his utter annoyance, the man who'd once been able to easily sleep tucked into the corner of an alley, on the cold floor of an abandoned building, sleep had fully eluded him. He'd grown accustomed, over the years, to Laura leaning softly against him as they napped on long flights such as this one.

Thus, he'd crossed his arms and stared out the window, brooding. He felt much as he imagined Charles Stuart had when he'd found himself exiled to Holland, only there'd be no Katie to bewitch him at the end of his journey ( _The Exile_ , Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Rita Corday, Nigel Bruce, Universal, 1947). No, his Katie was back home, in LA, where he wished most fervently to be. That he was comparing his own life to a movie he'd found lacking the panache of the film noir he much preferred, only soured his mood further.

He'd been a churlish boor, that much was true, not one but two different attendants finding themselves upon the wrong side of his temper. He'd grown accustomed across the years to the attention his appearance would draw from the fairer sex. It was a fact he wasn't immune to using it to his advantage, pouring on the charm to assure that he'd been attentively catered to. But in the last four years, after many an eye roll from his lady fair, he'd used the tactic with decreasing frequency, limiting those flirtations, more-or-less, to extracting information from a witness or suspect. Those old machinations had suddenly come to feel shallow, insincere – two traits that belonged to the life he'd chosen to leave behind.

No, he'd come to much prefer the almost imperceptible looks of appreciation; a pair of hand stroking down his sleeves, straightening his tie, before giving a nod of approval… and openly deprecating glances should he get a bit too full of himself. Oh, he'd never put one over on Laura for his looks alone.

The mere idea drew a soft laugh from his throat.

Bloody hell, he'd never managed to get one past Laura at all.

Don her in a humiliating rabbit costume for a client's party, and he'd find himself the boy-toy of a rotund black woman having her way with him, under the watch of Laura's amused eye. Kidnap an aging movie star, and he'd find himself dumped, complete with straight jacket, in a psych ward, left to his own wits to find their client and get out. Create a fictitious date to arouse her jealousy, and he'd be driven half mad, wondering what man was using her shower in the early morning hours, until, in desperation, he'd suggested sixty minutes of total-honesty to set his mind at ease. Allow his ego to get a bit out of hand after being named one of LA's Most Eligible Bachelors and…

* * *

" _ **Some might call it poetic justice, the way you carried on with Millicent and Mariah."**_

" _ **That's all behind me now. All I want to do is stay home with that… special… someone."**_

" _ **When you find her, give her my best."**_

" _ **Where are you going?"**_

" _ **Mariah's chosen another set of bachelors. She wants me to check them out, see if they deserve the honor."**_

" _ **Laura?"**_

" _ **Don't wait up."**_

* * *

A smile lifted his lips at the remembrance. No one had ever been able to give him tit-for-tat quite like Laura Holt. Oh, how he already longed to be the focus of one of her withering looks, her blistering set downs. He frowned at the realization he'd likely welcome her carping endlessly in his ear about whatever misstep he'd made before his exile was over.

And thus was how he'd spent the entirety of the nearly twelve hour flight, his mood swinging to and fro, not a single kip to be found. Then to realize his blunder as he'd disembarked the plane? Well, his mood had turned to downright surly. Muttering a string of oaths beneath his breath, he'd walked purposefully towards the ticket counter. Twenty minutes later he had a ticket in hand for first-class reservations on the eleven a.m. flight to London, a recommendation for the best hotel in the vicinity of the airport and was sitting in a rented hack being driven towards that very hotel.

Impatiently, he awaited the porter to open the door to his room, depositing his bags just inside. A five-spot elicited a courteous nod of the head, and then, with the door closing behind the porter, he was, at last, alone. Unceremoniously, he dropped his overnight bag on the dresser and crossed the room to the phone. He'd ordered up a spot of breakfast while checking in so that he could focus on what mattered most.

Picking up the handset of the phone, he requested to be connected to an international operator.

* * *

Norman Keyes shoved past Laura into the loft, her nose crinkling at the smell of the burning cigar he held in hand.

"What do you want, Keyes?" she demanded to know.

"Word on the street has it that Steele no longer pollutes these hallowed shores," he cackled.

"The only pollution I'm aware of is the one you're spreading," she retorted, yanking the cigar out of his hand and stomping towards the kitchen. "I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Mr. Steele's immigration issues have been worked out to the satisfaction of all concerned. It would seem your sources are as unreliable as you are inept." A muscle in the man's cheek twitched at the insult. She ran the cigar under the tap then tossed it into the garbage.

"I gotta tell you, Holt, I never saw you as the type to screw her way to the top." Inwardly, she flinched at the attack upon her character.

"And exactly what 'top' is it that I'm 'screwing' my way towards?" she inquired bitingly, as she stalked towards the door again. "Mr. Steele and I have always been partners. So far as I know, that is as 'top' as the Agency gets. Now, if you don't mind…" She held out her hand towards the open doorway. Keyes ignored the obvious invitation to depart and wandered over to the piano, tinkling with its keys.

"Here I thought you were the brains of the operation, but I think I might have given you too much credit." He muttered a curse when she came up behind him unheard and slammed the fallboard down, smashing a pair of his fingers in the process.

"Hands off," she ground out.

"For all but the boss, huh?" he sneered.

"Just _what_ is your problem, Keyes? So we solved a couple of cases before you did. Big deal!" She threw up her arms in agitation.

"While making _me_ look bad. This ain't a game, little lady. It's my livelihood. And before you two yahoos came along, I was considered the best in the business."

"That's not Mr. Steele's fault," she replied. "We were hired to do a job. We did the job. That shouldn't be a call for revenge!"

"While making _me_ look like a fool!" He emphasized his point, with a finger at her nose. Smacking his hand away, she walked towards the front door again.

"You did that on your own," she countered. "You were so determined to prove Mr. Steele's nefarious involvement in both the Grogan and Cranston cases, that you ignored the evidence. If you looked like a fool, you've no one to blame but yourself."

"I tried to warn you, Holt, during the Grogan fiasco," he reminded her.

* * *

" _ **Miss Holt, I always thought you were an innocent dupe."**_

" _ **I'm flattered."**_

" _ **Back in Vegas, Steele pulled the wool over our eyes, remember? Now, things are a bit different."**_

" _ **He's still my boss."**_

" _ **He's also a thief and a liar. What I mean is, you're too smart a cookie to let him do that to you again."**_

" _ **You really get a kick out of this, don't you, Keyes?"**_

" _ **It's my job. Now, listen, honey. Steele is gonna do serious time. When the sentence comes down, you can look good or you can look bad, depending on how cooperative you've been."**_

* * *

"I'm not interested in your warnings," she brushed off. Her head snapped around to peer towards the kitchen where the phone had begun to ring. Promptly she left the doorway again, to answer the phone. "You can see your way out," she ordered, as she grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"I've arrived safe and sound," Remington announced over the line.

"Good, hold on just a second." He pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared in disbelief as he heard it clatter to the countertop. So much for the fond imaginings he'd had that she'd been missing him as much as he had been her. His ears perked up as he heard her speak. "Need I remind you what happened the last time you overstayed your welcome?" she snapped.

"That little stunt of yours damned well nearly cost me my job, Holt!" Keyes bellowed.

"Laura… Laura?! Is that Keyes? In your loft?" Remington shouted, unheard, through the abandoned receiver.

" _My stunt?_ " she asked, appalled. " _You_ were the one trespassing. _You_ were the one making lewd suggestions. _You_ were the one who put his hands on me. Yet, here you are, invading the privacy of my home! And you dare question _my_ intelligence." She pointed to the doorway. "I'm through being polite. _Get out!_ Unless, that is, you wish to enjoy the LAPD's accommodations again this evening." Keyes' normally ruddy complexion turned beet red in his fury.

"You know what, Holt? You and that boss of yours are both going down," he threatened as he stomped towards the door. "Before I'm done with the two of you, you'll wish you never heard of Norman Keyes."

"Trust me, we already do," she replied, then yanked the door shut behind him, latching it. She tipped her face towards the ceiling, drawing in and letting go of a deep breath. As if the day hadn't already been bad enough—

The thought reminded her of the phone awaiting on the counter and she scurried across the living room to snatch it up.

"Laura, tell me I didn't just hear Keyes!" Remington demanded, standing stiffly next to the bed in his hotel room and dragging a hand through his hair.

"That's not important," she dismissed. "You arrived safely? No issues?"

"Lau-ra," he growled the warning.

"Alright, yes, it was Keyes!" she snapped. Taking another breath, she collected herself. This wasn't the way she wanted the call to go after waiting for it all day. "He was here and now he's gone. Can we focus on what's important?"

"What's important?" he shouted into the phone. "This is important! I'm not gone half a day, and the man's on your doorstep. What did he want, Laura?"

"To spread cheer and good tidings," she replied in a snarky tone. "What do you think he wanted? It's always the same with the man, a good deal of vulgarity peppered with a variety of threats."

"What threats?" He pounced on the last. She held up a hand and dropped it.

"The usual: We'll rue the day we ever crossed his path."

"I'm of half a mind to send Monroe by to have a chat with our Mr. Keyes," he announced. Her spine stiffened and her lips thinned.

"Only gone half a day and already I have to remind you that _I can take care of myself_?" she challenged. His jaw clenched and the muscle in it twitched, the commentary grating as it always had. With an exhausted sigh, she leaned forward and rested an elbow against the kitchen counter. "I don't want to argue, Remington," she told him wearily. "Today's already been difficult enough." The use of his first name, still a rare occurrence for him, left him sitting down heavily on the side of the bed and drawing another hand through his hair. He hated feeling powerless to protect her, and would be forced to live with that feeling for months to come. He'd have to address how to deal with those feelings, but that could wait.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Mildred spent the entire day weeping," she frowned, then added, "Although I suppose I'm partly to blame for that."

"Short of temper were you?" he speculated.

"A bit," she conceded, "But I can't have her bursting into tears every time she answers the phone," she calmly defended. "And when she wasn't crying, she was going on and on and on about how unjust all this is. As though I don't know that?"

"That upset about my departure, was she?" She could hear his smile through the phone.

"I'm sure she'll get over it in a day or two," she deadpanned. His grin merely widened, the comment so in keeping with his thoughts about her on the plane earlier in the day.

"Certain of that are you? And you? I suppose you'll 'get over it'," he said the phrase disparagingly, "shortly as well?"

"Oh, I'm sure it will take at least one, maybe two more—"

"Weeks?" he hastened to volunteer.

"Hours." He stifled his answering laugh and grumbled instead.

"Remember that thought when you're wishing to warm your feet tonight." A smile finally lit her face and, stretching out the cord of the phone, she navigated herself around the counter and stretched out on the sofa

"So, I'll wear socks. That's perfectly acceptable bedtime attire," she noted. He grimaced with distaste.

"Perhaps for Nina Shipman." The comment furrowed her brows.

"Nina Shipman? Lemme guess. One from your long line of bubble-headed bimbos that used to file through the Agency?" Ahhh, he did so enjoy her small displays of jealousy. It did a man good to know he could inspire such a feeling.

" _The Oregon Trail_ , Fred McMurray, William Bishop, Nina Shipman, API, 1959. McMurray plays a reporter for the New York Times gone under cover to prove President Polk wasn't sending settlers west, but soldiers disguised as such." She rolled her eyes. _I should have known._

"Tell me about your flight, Mr. Steele," she encouraged. Settling in on the couch, she closed her eyes.

"Terrible. Worst flight, save one, that I've taken in some years now…"

She kept him company as his room service arrived and he devoured the first meal he'd had in more than twenty-four hours.

"So what are your plans now?" she finally ventured.

"I've reserved a seat on the eleven a.m. flight to London. I imagine I'll be settled in at Daniel's place before afternoon tea." For some reason, the idea of two men at afternoon tea amused her.

"You can't be serious," she laughed.

"Ah, but I am. Daniel is very fond of the old British traditions, seeing them in keeping with the habits of the upper echelon, as he does," he shared.

"Lemme guess. Cucumber finger sandwiches?" she merrily mused.

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he scolded, snootily. "Can you contrive of any instance in which I would consider such a sandwich the least bit palatable? Tea and a small variety of pastries from which to choose," he corrected. With a sigh of regret, she glanced at her watch.

"It's almost six o'clock there. You need to get some sleep if you're going to catch that eleven o'clock flight." His sigh was a mimic of her own.

"Mmmm," he hummed his agreement, when what he really wished to say was ' _Sod it all, Laura. Close the Agency until the New Year and come to London._ ' "I'll call you once I arrive at Daniel's."

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele." The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

"Until then, Miss Holt." She lay with the headset of the phone, dial tone droning, against her chest for long seconds, blinking up at the ceiling. She hadn't let a single tear fall yet, and wouldn't start now, she vowed.

Forcing herself upwards, she hung up the phone in the kitchen, then turned towards her bedroom to prepare for sleep herself. Twenty-five minutes later – showered, dressed, hair brushed out and wrapped in a robe – Laura flipped on the television to listen to the late news as she picked up the loft.

' _Today, a Superior Court jury awarded a Sacramento man, Raymond Leonardini, more than five-million-dollars in his civil lawsuit against the Shell Corporation…'_

She'd made light of it with Remington, but Keyes's threat earlier had left those little hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. The man was planning something, but what? If he believed his plan to have Remington deported had failed, what else might he do? Leak Remington's immigration woes to the press? If that were the case, she'd need to prepare a statement to counter those claims before they were made.

' _On the world front, an off-duty police inspector was shot to death in an ambush outside his home in Northern Ireland today…"_

She paused as her mind registered the blurb that had been emitted by the television. Northern Ireland. Where Remington currently was. Well, _that_ did little to calm her already jumpy nerves.

Her every instinct was screaming at her that whatever it was Keyes had planned, it was far larger than feeding an LA gossip columnist with a juicy piece of information. He'd taken a hard blow at Remington and the Agency with his INS stunt, and if he believed it had failed, what might he next resort to. She stared blankly out the kitchen window as she mindlessly washed the cup in her hands and concentrated on where Keyes might focus his next blow.

' _in Sports, the Dodgers currently lead the San Francisco Giants, five-to-four…"_

The first good news of the day, she mumbled to herself in the back of her mind. Thanks to the combined efforts of Honeycutt and Powell, the Giants had already taken the series the night before. But with Valenzuela on the mound, there were better than even odds that they'd at least avoid the sweep.

 _Valenzuela… Venezuela…_

She gasped as what Keyes's next step might be dawned on her.

* * *

" _ **How well do you know Remington Steele?"**_

" _ **I've been with him since… ummmm… he formed the Agency."**_

" _ **Did the name Michael O'Leary ever pop up in conversation?"**_

" _ **Who's Michael O'Leary?"**_

" _ **He is. Under that name, he stole a painting called the Five Nudes of Cairo."**_

" _ **That's absurd."**_

" _ **What about Richard Blaine? That ring any bells?"**_

" _ **No."**_

" _ **It does with the Mexico City police. Under that name, he's wanted in connection with the theft of some jewels called the Marchesa Collection."**_

* * *

 _His passports._

Is that why they'd been on her mind earlier in the evening? Had she known, instinctively, without the threat ever being announced, that this was a weakness Keyes might exploit? She had no idea, but she made a mental note to have Mildred check the names on those passports to see what might still appear.

" _In the second part of our three part series, Disaster in the Skies, we were on location at LAX today investigating the possible ties between the recent suicide of an air traffic controller and the near in-air collision of two seven-thirty-sevens last week…"_

Enough was enough. First shootings in Ireland and now horror stories of planes dropping from the sky? She already had more than enough for her active imagination to worry about, no need to add to it further. Setting the cup she'd just rinsed off on the drain board, she reached for the dish towel to dry her hands. After returning the towel to the rack, she flicked off the kitchen lights then walked towards the front door to confirm it was locked.

" _I hear you stumbled on another story of interest while at LAX, Windsor."_

" _I did. It would seem Remington Steele…"_

Laura's ears perked up at the mention of his name, and she walked towards the television.

" … _the private investigator voted, not too long ago, one of LA's Most Eligible Bachelors, may not be on the market any longer…"_

Laura groaned in dismay as her eyes took in the scene being played out on the evening news. Her. Remington. In that alcove at the airport.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no…" she mumbled, dropping down onto the edge of the sofa. Leaning forward, she pressed her palms to her eyes and rocked. _This can't be happening._

" _He and his partner, Laura Holt, were spotted getting pretttttty cozy at LAX this morning, before he departed, alone, on a flight for Ireland."_

She crinkled her face with dread when the phone began to ring, insistently. She slowly rose to her feet and forced herself across the room.

" _Now that's a departing gift I wouldn't mind getting,"_ Windor's co-host leered as she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Laura, it's Frances." _Oh, God._

"It's rather late, don't you think, Frances?" she punted.

"Donald and I were just watching the news…" Laura's shoulders sagged under the weight of the announcement. "Have you _seen_ the news, Laura?"

"I'm afraid I have." _Why bother lying._

"While I think it was a positively romantic send off you gave Remington, you know how Mother is, Laura. She's arriving tomorrow morning and if this is still on the news… Well, I don't have to tell you, after such a public display of your feelings she'll start speaking of 'intentions'."

"This isn't the Middle Ages, Frances. Adults _have_ been known to kiss in public," she argued.

"Appearances are everything to Mother. Why I remember one time when Donald and I were dating…"

The day that possibly couldn't get worse just had. She vowed the next time she saw Windsor Thomas, she'd yank out every last piece of her dyed hair. _That_ thought brought a smile to her lips.


	18. Chapter 18: London Landing

_**A/N: Now that things have begun to settle down around here, extra long chapters this week ;)**_

* * *

Chapter 18: London Landing

"Ah, Harry, my boy, so good to see you!" Daniel greeted, when Remington stepped into the bright, airy living room. The two men exchanged hugs, before Daniel indicated a pair of wing chairs. "Tilly will be along shortly with a pot of tea. You might wish to prepare yourself," he warned. Remington lifted a single brow as he sat.

"Oh, and what is it I should prepare myself for, exactly?" he wondered.

"Tilly is quite put out with you for not coming 'round these last years. I'm afraid she may deliver quite the tongue-thrashing, although…" Daniel quirked a brow at his protégé "…now that you've back, I imagine—"

"Oh, no, no, old man" Remington laughed, wagging a finger and shaking his head in denial, "As I've told you before, my life is in Los Angeles now."

"A few weeks away from your tediously puritanical Miss Holt, and I imagine you'll be eager to get back at it," Daniel dismissed. "I've actually been working on something. It would take a great deal charm, finagling and finesse to get the job done. I imagine you'd—"

"I thought you'd retired," Remington interrupted again.

"Oh, but I had," Daniel confirmed.

"Eight months is not retirement, it's a vacation, or a spell of lying low until things cool down," Remington reasoned. He drew his hand through his hair at an alarming thought. "Please tell me that you're not planning to relieve the Earl of his valuables, _Daniel_." Lifting a hand, he gnawed at his nail, the possibility presented making him feel shockingly torn. He'd come to like the Earl a great deal… admire him even… and if Daniel were preparing to—

"You sound as though you'd be disturbed by such a notion," Daniel noted, surprise and disapproval in his voice.

"And I _would_ be," Remington confirmed. "It was once thing when I didn't know the man,and even then I wanted no part of your hijinks with Felicia…" he reminded, a finger pointed at Daniel in emphasis, "But now I do, and I must say I like the man, respect him even. That you'd take advantage of his trust—" Daniel's laughter stopped him in his tracks.

"You've been out of the game for far too long, Harry," Daniel advised. "What is a confidence man, if not someone who first builds trust then violates it?" Remington winced, acknowledging there'd been a time he was of much the same mind. "You're time with Linda has turned you soft, my boy."

"That may be, but I should still think there'd come a time in an association where a bit of loyalty was called for," Remington argued.

"Loyalty?" Daniel mockingly laughed. "You act as though you believe such a thing exists."

"I do," Remington responded, elongating each word for emphasis. "Laura has certainly shown such a thing exists over the last years," he nodded in Daniel's direction "As have you for near on two decades, might I add. Is it rare? Yes, exceedingly so. But it _does_ exist."

"Relax, Harry," Daniel replied, giving the younger man a slap on the shoulder, "I'm just having a bit of fun with you. I've no intention of relieving Thomas of his trinkets. Where would the challenge be in that? No, I've met a woman, a Baroness, rumored to have a most enticing collection of—" Remington held up a hand.

"Spare me the details, please," he requested. "I'm not interested. I'm only here until—" He stopped speaking when a rotund, white haired woman stepped into the room carrying a tray laden down with a teapot and a pair of cups and saucers. With a sidelong gaze, she examined Remington from the top of his head to his toes as she sat the tray upon the coffee table.

"Your tea, Daniel," she remarked, stating the obvious. "Have you a preference for afternoon tea?"

"Harry?" Daniel deferred.

"I've had many a wistful thought, these last years, of scones and clotted cream. No one can make it quite like yourself, Tildy." He gave the elderly woman a wide grin, which she returned with a dark scowl.

"That'll be Mrs. Horner, to you, if you don't mind. 'Tildy' is a name that belongs to another time." She wagged a fierce finger at him. "A time when the lad who called me by the name remembered to check in every now and again."

"Now, Til—" He swallowed hard at the thunderous look, and tried again. "I know it's been a while, but I've a job, responsibilities. I can't simply pick up and leave whenever I wish."

"Go on with you," she snorted, with a wave of her hand. "A job. Responsibilities. Heard the same nonsense when you ran off with the carnival. Off playing detective with that hoity-toity Yank, as though you're a character in one of those movies of yours. Work!" she scoffed.

"Hoity-toi—" Remington spun to look at Daniel. "What in heaven's name have you been saying about Laura?" he demanded to know. "There are many things that are true about Laura – Demanding, keeps her nose to the grindstone, honest almost to a fault – but there is nothing, whatsoever, snobbish about her." He turned back to Tilly. "Granted, when I first took on the mantle of Remington Steele, I thought it might be fun to play Sam Spade for a spell," he admitted, then defended, "As it turns out, it's hard work helping people, but I like it. We make a difference." Tilly harrumphed in answer.

"And I suppose you've taken not a single vacation—"

"As a matter of fact, only one in the last years, and it was nothing more than a long weekend," he protested. "Any time we try to plan time away, a case interferes." His response earned another wave of the hand.

"Always with the fast tongue and ready excuses," Tilly berated. "Next you'll be telling me it wasn't you all over the papers. Right in London and you couldn't spare a few hours for a visit." He withered under the accusation.

"It's complicated, Tildy," he beseeched, half-heartedly, knowing the attempt would do him no good. She turned her back to him, dismissing him.

"Afternoon tea at four-thirty sharp," she confirmed with Daniel, then stalked from the room, as Remington stood in the middle of it, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. Daniel's chuckle earned a scowl in his direction.

"Can't say I didn't forewarn you," he grinned at his protégé, as he took his seat and reached for the tea. "Let's have a spot of tea, shall we?" Remington dropped his hand but didn't move from where he was.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get settled and I promised Laura I'd call once I was here," he excused himself. Daniel shooed him off with the flick of hand.

"Your room's as last you left it," he replied. "I imagine Milton's already dropped your bags." Remington grimaced.

"The man's seventy if he's a day. Do you honestly believe he should be traipsing up flights of stairs with luggage?" Daniel laughed low in his throat.

"You know how the man is, Harry, stubborn to the core. Go, call Linda. I'll see you for tea. Angry with you or not, I imagine Tilly's in the kitchen whipping up a batch of scones and clotted cream as we speak."

Stomach rumbling, Remington departed for his room.

* * *

Laura sat on the couch, mug of coffee in hand, as a syndicated rerun of _Mr. Ed_ droned on the television, unheard by her. She'd finally given up on sleep at four a.m. Between Frances's call the evening before and the lack of Remington in the bed next to her, what little sleep she'd managed to get had been fitful, to say the least. The second of as many nights of little sleep, she noted ruefully.

Her nerves would settle, she hoped, once Remington had stopped his travels… and once the morning news revealed whether or not she'd have to contend with Abigail harping in her ear about propriety, expectations, and declarations.

 _Oh, God._ The _last_ thing she'd needed right now was her mother coming to LA for a visit. On the best of day's Abigail's constant criticisms stung, although Laura had long ago become adept at resorting to sarcastic retorts and sneering dismissals, rather than to let Abigail know her shots had found their mark. But now, her fragile hold on her emotions might see those safeguards cracked, which meant each zing would be like a slice to her flesh.

And she had not a single doubt there would be a multitude of cutting remarks ahead about her and her life choices.

As though she'd had much voice in her own life of late.

Her life had been out of her control for far too long, as far as she was concerned. It seemed everyone around her had been making decisions for her. Keyes's decision to set the INS on Remington. The INS's decision to reject Remington's attempts to stay in the States. Remington's decision to voluntarily deport himself. Keyes's most recent threats. Windsor's decision to film a private moment then broadcast it. Abigail's decision to visit now, at all times.

Decisions being made all around her that would affect her life, but no one had _given_ her a choice in any of it.

A little over six years ago, she'd vowed to never allow anyone to make her feel helpless again. Yet that was precisely how she felt. She wanted to wrest control of her life back, yet had no idea how to do so or where even to begin. She couldn't prepare for Keyes having no idea what he might be planning. She couldn't bring her partner and lover home any sooner than the United States government would allow him to return. She couldn't turn back time and take a bat to Windsor's camera. And, God knew, she couldn't cancel her mother's flight, although she wished dearly that she could.

Work. She could go to work and bury herself in the comfort of files waiting to be closed, bills calling to be paid. With Remington out of the office, she could reorganize the files, as she'd been thinking about doing for months now.

At least going to work a decision, she acknowledged to herself. Standing, she set her mug on the coffee table.

Her morning routine offered some semblance of normalcy. Navy suit, white blouse, nude hose, navy heels. Shower, hair blown dry rod straight then front clipped back. A light dusting of makeup. Back upstairs to her bedroom to dress.

The unexpected, harsh ring of the phone next to her bed made her jump. Her eyes automatically flitted to the clock: Six-fifty-five. Early morning calls were never a good omen. Snatching up the handset, she spoke quickly into the phone.

"Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" Remington asked. Her shoulders drooped with relief when she heard the familiar voice. Between him in one time zone, her in another, lack of sleep and worrying over things she was powerless over, somehow in her head she'd been expecting him to the call the office mid-afternoon, when in fact he'd reach London during his afternoon, her morning.

"No," she replied. "I've been up for hours, actually." Tugging on her pantyhose, she reached for her skirt.

"Did something happen?" he asked, visions of another visit by Keyes prancing through his imagination.

"No. I thought I'd go in early this morning." There was no way she'd admit his absence was a large part of her sleepless state. "My desk is buried under files I need to finalize. Are you at Daniel's?"

"Mmmm. Arrived not too long ago, actually." An awkward silence fell between them as she battled the impulse to ask if Daniel had tried to rope Remington into one of his schemes. But, he knew her too well to let her get away with it. "Laura, if staying here is going to cause problems between you and I, I can simply move to a hotel until I decide where I'm going to spend the duration of my exile." For half a second, she was tempted to take him up on the offer. Then, she reluctantly recognized that if their personal, and possibility professional, relationship was going to survive this separation, she was going to have to find it within herself to trust him… no matter where he was.

"There's no need, at least not for my sake," she assured as she wriggled into her skirt and tucked in her shirt. "If Daniel is determined he's going to try to convince you to join in on his latest scheme, he can make his pitch in a hotel suite as well as he can in his own home. Why not save the money while you can?" His blood warmed as he acknowledged the unspoken expression of trust for what it was. Zipping her skirt, she sat down on the bed. The cord tied her to a limited space and she wasn't cutting the call short. "Have any plans for this evening?"

"I haven't even thought that far ahead, to be honest." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell, Laura, one day gone and I feel like a lad sent off to sleepover camp, I'm so damned homesick." She sighed heavily while fingering the base of her throat.

"I'm experiencing something similar myself. But I'm sure once we fall into a routine, it'll get easier." She hadn't even managed to convince herself, leading to another sigh and an admission of her own. "I hate it, too. We're just going to have to learn to live with it for now." He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I know, I know," he agreed, then shook his head to rid it of his dreary thoughts. "I just wish—"

"Oh, no." Laura's desolate voice rang through the line, each word elongated, with her angst. "Hold on." He heard the phone clatter against presumably a table or counter, then silence. Taking the steps from her room to the living room two at a time, she raced to the television and turned it up before returning to her room and the phone.

"Laura… Laura?" She could hear Remington's alarmed voice calling for her before she picked up the receiver again.

"I'm here," she replied, looking over the railing at the TV in the living room below.

"What? What is it? What's happened?"

"Windsor," she spat the name, " _That's_ what happened." She moaned aloud. "I'm never going to hear the end of it from Mother," she lamented. Brows furrowing, he sat up on his bed.

"What's Windsor done? What exactly is it that you're going to hear from Abigail?" he peppered the questions. She puffed out a breath as she sat down heavily onto the edge of the bed.

"We made the evening news last night, Mr. Steele," she announced, unhappily. "Apparently the story is of enough interest that the story reran just now." Alarm made his heart begin to pound. Should his INS woes have been made public and it affect the Agency, the price could well be his relationship with the woman he was speaking to.

"My problems with the INS?" He forced the words past his lips.

"No, far worse," she bemoaned. "Windsor and her cameraman were at LAX yesterday doing an investigative piece on the suicide of an air traffic controller and a possible connection to the near mid-air crash of two planes last week." His neck straightened and his frown deepened, not sure how the story had anything to do with them. He said as much.

"I don't see what that has to do with us."

"Try this on for a lead in," she suggested, "Remington Steele, one of LA's most eligible bachelors, is off the market." _Oh, was that all?_ He grinned and lay back to lounge on the bed.

"So far as I know, _I am_ ," he noted, unconcerned.

"That's not the point!" she insisted, voice rising. "The footage was of us. In LAX. Kissing. And not just a peck! And now it's on the news!"

"Laura, I understand that such a blurb would grate given your natural proclivity to avoid publicly displaying our affections, but it's—"

"Have you ever wondered where that 'natural proclivity' comes from, Remington?" The censorious tone of her voice was nullified by her use of his first name. His smile merely widened. He was rather fond of the idea that any red-blooded male in the Los Angeles area who'd seen the broadcasts would be aware Laura was taken.

"Can't say that I have," he admitted, easily, "It seems in keeping with your natural bent towards propriety." He shrugged a shoulder. "We seem to be of the same mind in that, with the rare exception. And I think yesterday was one such exception, don't you?"

"You're missing the point," she rebuked. "Our entire lives Mother drilled it into Frances and my heads that intimate moments are private and should be kept just that: private." Standing to pace she tossed up a hand. "I'm surprised she even permitted Frances to kiss Donald at their wedding, to be honest."

"It's a good thing she's in Connecticut then, eh? As far as I know Spotlight News doesn't broadcast beyond the local market." She pressed a hand against her forehead.

"Mother is arriving in Los Angeles _today_ , Mr. Steele. And if we were featured last night then again this morning, the odds are better than even that it will air on the noon news, which means either she'll see it herself or she'll hear about from any number of women that were part of her old bridge group," she fretted. "Do you understand what that means? Reminders of how I regularly disappoint her. Discussions on how one should comport themselves in public. Tears, as she drones on endlessly about how I've embarrassed her, _once again_! Questions about your intentions, our plans for the future! It was already going to be difficult enough, the questions, the comments about where you are…" Her rant fizzled and her words trailed off as she sank down on the side of the bed again.

By the time she'd finished, the grin on his face had faded. On the best of days an impending visit by Abigail was enough to set Laura's teeth on edge and her nerves atwitter. But _these_ were not the best of days, not by far, living on the edges of their emotions as they were right about now.

Ah, he wished he were back in LA, to run interference with Abigail, to relax the inevitably knotted muscles in Laura's shoulders and back after even the shortest of visits with her mother.

"Laura, do you intend to tell your Mother and Frances the truth about where I am?" he ventured. "It's fine by me if that's what you'd prefer to do." The suggestion made her set aside her worries so that she could weigh the pros and cons of what he'd offered.

"I'll tell Frances and Donald the truth after Mother leaves, but Mother doesn't know how to keep a secret. Within the hour she'll be on the phone telling friends at junior league, the bridge club 'You'll never guess… but don't say a word to anyone,'" she mimicked then resumed speaking normally, "Which, of course, they will."

"Mmmmm," he hummed his agreement, "I see your point." Standing again, she slipped her feet into her heels.

"I hate to say it, but I need to go. I'm taking Mother and Frances to lunch this afternoon and need to take care of a few things at the office before they arrive. Call me before you go to bed?"

"The sound of your lyrical voice lulling me to sleep? How could I possibly resist? And Laura?"

"Yes?" she replied, pulling on the jacket to her suit.

"Try to remember Abigail wants what she believes is best for you, even if you don't see eye-to-eye on what that is," he reminded, gently.

"I know, I know," she agreed, then added on a sigh, "It would just be easier if you were here." He savored the words and the tacit admission that his presence in her life made it a little better, even if only in this small way.

"We'll speak soon."

"Goodbye, Mr. Steele."

After emptying her coffee mug and rinsing it out, she departed for the office, locking the loft door firmly behind her.

They'd made it through the first day, but she was wondering how they'd fare over the seven to eight months still remaining.


	19. Chapter 19: Perceptions

Chapter 19: Perceptions

Mildred rapped lightly on Laura's open office door, drawing the younger woman's attention away from the file in front of her.

"Good morning, Mildred," she greeted warmly.

"You're up and at it early," Mildred observed. She was worried for the woman she viewed much like a daughter. The last time the Boss had left, Laura had alternated between working herself to the point of exhaustion and avoiding the office altogether. Already telltale signs of exhaustion showed in the shadowing beneath her eyes. Laura sat down her pen and leaned back in her chair.

"Have a seat, Mildred. I'd like to speak with you." Mildred's eyes narrowed slightly, warily. These were uncertain times at the Agency, making whatever it was Miss Holt wished to discuss unpredictable. Sitting down in the chair across the desk from Laura, she folded her hands in her lap and tried not to appear as nervous as she was.

"What's up?"

"I had a visitor at the loft last night in the form of Norman Keyes, mak—" Mildred startled and sat up straighter, her outrage written all over her.

"After what he did? That… that… louse…that treacherous sna—" Laura held up a hand to quell what she suspected would be a long litany of slurs should she let it go on.

"Point made, and I can't say I disagree," she interrupted. Leaning forward in her chair, she picked up a pen and began scrawling on a piece of paper. "Needless to say threats of revenge were made. So, better safe than sorry, I need you to do a full background on each of Mr. Steele's old passports. Leave no stone unturned. Let's find out if someone waved a wand and made those past… misdeeds… go away, or if he was only given a temporary reprieve." Mildred's eyes widened as she took the paper Laura leaned across the desk to offer her.

"You don't think—"

"I think he already had Mr. Steele deported," she pointed out, "Who knows what he'll stoop to? But if he really wants revenge," she nodded her head towards the paper, "This is our greatest area of vulnerability: He could put Mr. Steele behind bars _and_ destroy the Agency." Mildred's face crumpled and her eyes welled up. Laura pointed her pen in the older woman's direction. "And no more of _that_. I know you miss him, that you worry about him. But this is already difficult enough without that _and_ we have a business to run." Mildred drew in a deep breath and, spine straightening, forced back her tears, giving Laura a curt nod.

"I'll get right on it," she promised, as she stood.

"Two more things, Mildred," Laura announced, inspiring Mildred to take her seat again. "My mother is in town for the week. Call Claude at Chez Rives when they open and tell him I need a twelve-thirty seating."

"Will do."

"I'm sure my mother and sister will show up at the Agency unannounced… Frequentlly," she groused under her breath. "If asked where Mr. Steele is, use the party line: Away on a case, hush-hush, you know what to do."

"You got it," Mildred concurred. From what she'd gleaned over the years about Laura's mother, the woman was a handful and a gossip. As for that sister of her? Bats! "What else?"

"Mr. Steele will be calling later this afternoon. Feel free to speak with him as long as you wish, but once the call is transferred to me, I'm not to be interrupted, understood?" This time Mildred stood and walked towards the door, her step a bit livelier at the thought of speaking to Remington.

"I'll have the backgrounds back to you before lunch," she pledged.

"Don't worry about speed, focus on thoroughness. I don't want to take a chance we miss anything that Keyes could exploit ."

When her office door closed behind Mildred, Laura tossed down her pen and leaning her elbows against the desk, steepled her fingers.

What _was_ Keyes up to?

Was he up to anything at all?

* * *

"Mademoiselle Holt, your table," Claude, owner and maître de at Chez Rives, indicated a spacious semi-circular booth with his outstretched arm, "And may I say, it is a pleasure to see you again. Will Mr. Steele be joining you, today?"

"No, he's away on business. Just my mother and sister today, I'm afraid," Laura answered as she sat down on the booth.

"Then we look forward to Mr. Steele visiting when he returns. A glass of wine while you wait for the rest of your party?" She considered the question for a long second.

"Scotch, straight up." She suspected she'd need something to fortify herself. "If you could make a recommendation on a nice bottle of wine when we order, I'd appreciate it. Mr. Steele is the wine aficionado, not I."

"It would be my pleasure," he agreed with a courtly-half bow before leaving the table.

Less than a minute after her scotch arrived, she spied her mother and Frances at the hostess stand. The pinched-faced look of disapproval her mother wore could be seen across the room. Saying a small prayer for patience, she knocked back the scotch then stood to greet her mother and sister.

"Laura, darling," Abigail greeted with a peck to Laura's cheek.

"Mother, how nice to see you." She dutifully bussed her mother on a cheek and gave her a hug, cringing when Frances mouthed behind Abigail's back, 'she knows.' Plastering a smile on her face, she stepped away from Abigail to hug Frances.

She tried not to smile when Frances voluntarily slipped into the booth and moved to the back of it, leaving Abigail and Laura sitting on the outside, her sister's silent recognition that Laura might feel the need to make a hasty escape.

"How was your flight, Mother?" Laura inquired cordially, as the waiter handed out their menus. She inwardly cringed when out of the corner of her eye she saw Frances wince. _Damn._

"In all my years of travel, I've never had such a dismal experience," Abigail griped. "The plane broke down, passengers were transferred to different flights, and when I was finally able to board, I was stuck with an aisle seat. An aisle seat! As if that weren't bad enough, the man sitting next to me was a slovenly pig that must have smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. Needless to say, when we arrived at Frances's, a bath and change of clothes was in order. It's a wonder we made it to lunch on time. When I get home, the first thing I'm going to do is sit down and compose a sternly worded letter to Pan Am. The whole experience was abysmal and no one should have to be subjected to such deplorable treatment." Laura fought the urge to point out if an aisle seat was the greatest disappointment of Abigail's day, she'd trade places with her in a heartbeat. Instead, she gave her an empathetic smile.

"I'm sorry you had such a poor experience, Mother," she offered.

"Then as if the day hadn't begun poorly enough—" Abigail stopped speaking abruptly when Claude approached the table.

"Claude, my mother, Abigail Holt…" Laura introduced. Claude took Abigail's hand in his and bent over it to bestow a kiss on the knuckles.

"A pleasure to meet the mother of one of my most treasured customers. I see now where Mademoiselle Holt gets her poise, her beauty," he flattered, having no idea of the woman he was dealing with.

"Certainly not from myself," Abigail dismissed. "Laura looks like her father." Laura's cheeks flushed, the comment both a reminder of one of the many reasons she was always the focus of her mother's disapproval and mortifying in its rudeness.

"You've met Frances, of course," Laura completed the introductions.

"Madame Piper, a pleasure to see you again." Remington and Laura had treated Donald and Frances to dinner at Chez Rives just a few weeks before.

"Thank you, Claude," Frances responded graciously.

"May I make a recommendation?" he suggested. Three pairs of brown eyes settled on him, waiting. "Very well. To start gravlax et sa salade de fenouil followed by little necks au vin blanc et persil and for your entrée, filet de loup de Mer a la dijonaise. And might I suggest a bottle of Chateau Coutet Semillon-Sauvignon Blanc?" When her mother and sister gave their unspoken approval, she confirmed with Claude.

"It sounds lovely. Thank you, Claude." Claude collected the menus then gave a gracious, half-bow.

"Your wine will be served shortly," he promised, then departed.

"Where was I?" Abigail wondered aloud. Then, with a sharp nod of her head, reached for her purse. "As if the day hadn't begun poorly enough, Frances left me twiddling my thumbs at LAX for more than half an hour—"

"When you called this morning you said your flight wouldn't be arriving until ten, Mother," Frances defended.

"You've been taught your entire life, Frances, to predict the unpredictable when hosting guests," Abigail admonished while removing a piece of paper from her purse. Frances's mouth snapped shut and Laura sent her a sympathetic look.

"Imagine my shock, as I sat there waiting, thumbing through the paper and I find, _this."_ She said the last word with supreme disapproval in her voice, as she shoved the unfolded piece of paper towards Laura. Picking it up, she groaned aloud.

"It was in the newspaper too?" she bemoaned. At Frances's quiet gasp, she realized her blunder. A pair of widened eyes flew upward to regard her mother, finding a pair of lips pinched in disapproval.

"What do you mean by 'too,' Laura?" Fiercely tamping down the impulse to flee, Laura straightened her shoulder and looked her mother in her eyes.

"One of the local news stations had a crew at the airport when I saw Mr. Steele off on his trip," she answered reasonably. "We weren't aware they were there and we most certainly didn't realize we were being filmed, until I saw it on the late news."

"I thought I taught you better, Laura. How many times have I told you that when you air your laundry in public, you never know who might be watching?" Abigail lectured. "At all times we should…."

"Comport ourselves in the most becoming manner," Laura and Frances finished in one voice. Laura reached for Frances's hand and gave it a squeeze, a silent expression of gratitude for her sister's support.

"The two of you can mock me all you wish, but your behavior reflects on your family," Abigail chastised. "Mrs. DeAngelo looked down her nose at me for a full—"

Conversation came to a standstill when the waiter arrived with their wine.

"For God's sake, Mother," Laura hissed across the table after the waiter departed, "Carl Kuzyk? I was _sixteen-years-old._ I apologized time-and-again. Over and over for _months_ … I was constantly _apologizing_! And for what? For necking on the front porch like teenagers-" She stuttered to a stop when a wide smile lit Abigail's face. "What's so funny?!" she demanded to know.

"You're drawing people's eyes," Abigail warned, the smile never wavering. Laura casted a slanted look towards the dining room and found, indeed, people were regarding her with interest. Averting her face, she drew in a long, cleansing breath. She wouldn't give her mother the satisfaction of a smile. Instead, she adopted the blank look that she was so adept at using when the need arose.

"This isn't Connecticut in the 1950's, Mother and I'm not a sixteen-year-old girl any longer. It's California in the mid-eighties and I'm a thirty-year-old woman," she continued in a more modulated tone, "My partner and the man I've been involved with for the past four years was leaving and we have no idea how long he'll be gone. I won't apologize for kissing him goodbye." Her brow furrowed. "In fact, I won't apologize for kissing him, period," she qualified. Picking up her glass, she took a long drink of her wine, wishing she was anywhere but here.

"I don't know if I'll ever understand you, Laura. With all your talk," Abigail gesticulated with a hand, "About women's liberation, proving you're as capable as any man, and being seen for who you are not what you are, I'd think you, more than anyone else, would be concerned with public perception."

"You're acting as though we make it a habit of publicly displaying our personal relationship on a regular basis. We don't," Laura defended, then thought to add, "For that matter, that you had no idea Mr. Steele and I were involved is a testament to our discretion." Abigail's eyes gleamed like the cat who'd eaten the proverbial canary.

"If you weren't worried about perception, why hide your relationship at all?"

"I wouldn't say we _hid_ our relationship, exactly," Laura said thoughtfully, fingering her throat. "We simply didn't publicize it. We've attended any number of functions together, both personal and professional. We just… allow people to draw their own conclusions. The fact is, there are certain… benefits… in our profession to people believing we're unencumbered. Any number of times we've solved a case because of information we've extracted from someone who had a romantic interest in one of us."

"'LA's Most Eligible Bachelor,'" Abigail intoned with considerable derision, while flicking a hand in the direction of the newspaper clipping. "I used to have a great deal of respect for your Mr. Steele. I can tell you it's disappointing to understand his true character, keeping you on the hook as he has while having the freedom to dally with whomever he wishes." Laura struggled to keep her composure at both the slight to Remington's character, not to mention the implication that she was somehow a victim. Frances didn't even bother to hide her own flabbergasted expression, appalled by their mother's unprovoked attack on the man.

Laura puffed in frustration as the conversation naturally stalled again with the arrival of their waiter and their salads. She forced herself to hold her tongue until wine glasses were touched up, the waiter departed and Abigail had taken a bite of her salad.

"' _Keeping me on the hook?_ '" Laura repeated, appalled. "I'm not a fish, Mother and I can assure you Mr. Steele has _never_ …" She cut a definitive hand across the air in front of her "…dropped his line in the water, proverbially or otherwise. He's spent his entire life avoiding commitment, ties to anyone or anywhere. And _I_ certainly wasn't looking to get involved." She couldn't suppress her dry, sardonic laugh. "My career, the Agency – _that's_ all that mattered to me."

"Now, you're being dramatic," Abigail brushed off her daughter's defense with a sniff. "Career or not, every woman wants to settle down, get married, have a family."

" _Not me_ ," Laura emphasized, then threw up her hands in frustration. "In my experience, men _don't stay_. Daddy didn't stick around. I dared to take a chance on Wilson and look where that left me. Another man… _gone_ … without so much as an explanation. I didn't have it in me to take that risk again."

"So, instead, you chose to engage in a tawdry affair with your Boss, of all people." Laura's fingers flexed against the table. Picking up her fork, she stabbed at her salad, shoving a heaping forkful into her mouth.

"He's _not my Boss,_ " she informed her mother, emphatically, around the food in her mouth. "He's my partner, always has been," she asserted, then thought to add, "And there's neither now, nor ever _has been_ , anything the least bit _tawdry_ in our relationship." She stabbed at more salad and shoveled it into her mouth. "You have no idea everything we've had to go through to get to where we are now. I won't apologize for it."

"And _'where'_ exactly are you? What are his intentions?" Laura's fork paused on the way to her salad, and she bit the inside of her lip, irritated for walking herself right into her mother's trap. _Intentions. That's what it's always about with her. Marrying me off, settling me down, turning me into herself and Frances!_ Her lips thinned as she filled her fork again.

"I have no idea what his _intentions_ are," she answered in a snotty tone. "We're still figuring it all out ourselves. If you're asking if I'm waiting on a marriage proposal, the answer is no, I'm not. I don't even know if either of us _believe_ in marriage." Abigail's fork fell from her hand and hit the edge of the salad bowl with a loud clang. Cheeks flushing as several heads turned her way, Abigail quickly picked up her fork and tried to feign all was well.

"What do you mean you don't believe in marriage?" she screeched under her breath.

"We see the ugliness after the 'I do's' in our line of work all the time. That… that…" in her frustration she waved a hand in the air "… _piece of paper_ doesn't keep people together. You of all people should know that." She watched her mother's face pinch with anger. _No doubt offended by my 'imprudence',_ she thought to herself. "That piece of paper does have a nasty habit, however, of turning things very hostile, vengeful even, as it brings the law into your relationship. Soon you're dividing property, possessions, accounts, even children and pets, fighting for every less concession. If Wilson did _anything_ right, it was walking away before walking down the aisle."

"Not every marriage ends badly, Laura. Look at your sister and Donald," Abigail argued.

"And look at you and Father," Laura shot back, wincing when her mother blanched. _Icy calm, Miss Holt, icy calm._ She could hear Remington's voice in her mind, as clearly as she could were his lips pressed next to her ear. She forced her irritation back and once again blanked her face, as she held up a hand, this time in apology. "I'm sorry. My point is, it's not that piece of paper that keeps people together. It's showing each day, in deeds, the value the other person holds in your life. Donald doesn't take the trash out each morning or mow the lawn because of that piece of paper. He does it because he cares about the life they've created together." She looked at Frances with a plea in her eyes.

"She's right, Mother," Frances chimed in, for the second time on the afternoon earning Laura's gratitude. "Why when I thought Donald was having an affair, when he pointed out to me he'd just dug that cesspool for me, I knew how silly I'd been to think any such thing. A man simply doesn't dig a cesspool for a woman he's about to leave."

"Stay out of this Frances," Abigail ordered, "This is between your sister and I."

"No, Mother, it's not," Laura corrected firmly. "Whatever course my relationship with Mr. Steele takes will be decided by him and me. If you'd like me to stay for the rest of lunch, then this discussion is _over._ " She turned her head to address her sister.

"Frances, how's Danny's pitching going?"

Flabbergasted by the way she'd been dismissed, Abigail watched, slack-jawed, as her daughters engaged in pleasantries.


	20. Chapter 20: Hellos and Goodbyes

Chapter 20: Hello's and Goodbyes

"She just walked in, Boss," Mildred announced into the phone as a weary looking Laura dragged herself through the Agency doors. "It's Mr. Steele," Mildred repeated to Laura, pointing to the receiver next to her ear.

"Give me one minute and transfer him to my office," Laura instructed, making a straight path for said office and closing the door behind her. Removing the fedora she'd worn to lunch she tossed it onto a chair across from her desk then flopped down into her chair.

Lunch had improved, briefly, after Laura's pronouncement that there would be no further discussion of her relationship with Remington, but eventually the ever-tenacious Abigail had managed to guide the conversation in a full circle. And, true to her word, Laura had departed before dessert selections were made. She'd taken care of the tab with Claude then had driven directly back to the office, and, even so, had arrived a few minutes late for Remington's expected call.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The shooting pains in her eyes guaranteed the headache threatening would pack a wallop. Dropping her hands, she pulled open a desk drawer and extracted a bottle of Excedrin. Tapping two capsules into the palm of her hand, she replaced the lid and returned the bottle to the drawer, muttering an oath when she realized she had nothing to wash the medication down with. With a huff of agitation, she pushed to her feet and reached for the door knob of her office.

The phone on her desk buzzed insistently. She snatched up the handset.

"Give me one minute," she requested, then dropped the handset on her desk and left her office.

On the other end of the line, Remington listened as the phone clattered against a surface. He held out his own receiver and stared at it for a long second. Given Mildred's hushed and hasty 'Looks like lunch didn't got so well' coupled with Laura's abrupt answering of the phone, he suspected Mildred's assessment was right on the money. Sitting up in his bed, he adjusted the pillows behind him, getting comfortable, prepared to allow Laura to rant as long as she felt the need. His ears perked up when the phone rustled, then the dulcet, if strained, tone of her voice hummed in his ears.

"Sorry," she apologized immediately, as she closed her office door behind her. "I needed a glass of water."

"Headache?" he dared to hazard.

"Working on one," she confirmed.

"Went poorly, did it?"

"It went… as expected," she answered on a sigh. Leaning back in her chair she closed her eyes and balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could massage her temples with her fingertips. "I've embarrassed her, why do I refuse to conform, she'll never understand me… the usual," she sighed again.

"Laura—"

"If you're going to remind me she means well… just not right now, please," she requested. He was left nodding his head again as that was precisely what he'd been planning to do. "How's Daniel?" A true sign of desperation for her to be asking after Daniel.

"Well... at least so far as I can see. You'll be happy to know he's conducting business with the Earl fully on the up-and-up." Behind her eyelids, she rolled her eyes. _I'll take the odds that he has something up his sleeve._ "In fact, he's asked that I accompany him out to Hawthorne, the Earl's London estate, tomorrow morning." Her eyes popped open at _that._

"Oh?" was all she said, although that single syllable spoke volumes and he heard every verse.

"Now don't let that agile mind of yours get worked up," he warned. "It's all very above board, I assure you. Daniel wants me to try my hand at a couple of safes he had installed…"

"Mr. Steele—" She drew out his name, unhappily, forgetting her earlier resolve regarding trust.

"They're supposed to be top of the line, impossible to breach without the combination. We're merely going to test the veracity of that guarantee…"

"Surely you don't expect me to believe—" Her voice rose as she spoke, inspiring him to finish quickly.

"…all beneath the watchful eye of the Earl, Lau-ra." _Not even forty-eight hours gone, and already she's beginning to doubt me._ It was a weighty thought, and one he couldn't afford to bury as he normally would, not with so much physical distance between them, preventing her from reading his eyes, his body language, from being able to see the honesty there. "We won't make it through this if you don't trust me, Laura," he admonished quietly. Her brows knitted at the reminder.

"I know," she conceded, then corrected with a hasty, "I do. Trust you, that is. It's just…"

"Just what?" He jumped on the unfinished thought. _How honest can I be with him?_

"Daniel means a great deal to you," she pointed out.

"Mmmm, that he does," he agreed.

"He changed your life," she continued.

"That he did. One might even go so far as to say he saved it," he offered.

"So it's not inconceivable, that should he need your help, even if you didn't wish to get involved, you'd feel a… certain obligation." She finished on a defeated, and somewhat embarrassed, note. And there it was. Those doubts. Not wholly unexpected, but worrisome nonetheless.

"Perhaps even understandable, hmmm?" he suggested quietly. Her soft sigh was the only answer. "Laura, do you recall once telling me you'd hoped my present had come to mean as much to me as my past?" The question left her mouth dry. Reaching for her water, she took a sip, buying enough that her voice wouldn't be as shaky as she felt when she answered.

* * *

" _ **I may have given you your name, even decided your line of work but your past… your damned past… I always knew you had that over me. I was hoping your present would come to mean as much to you."**_

* * *

She'd said the words to him during a particularly tumultuous period, when Anna had barreled through their lives. They'd walked separate but equally painful paths, as Anna had twisted him into knots and had left Laura feeling sucker punched and fearful, for him, to her very marrow. Up until then, she'd always known it was a very real possibility he might one day move on. But that had been an instinct, an understanding of his history, nothing more. It was Anna's appearance in his life, however, that had represented the first foreseeable chance that he might finally walk out of _her_ life, once and for all. The memory of how she'd felt in those days sent her mood spiraling further downwards.

"Laura? Lau-ra…" Remington drew out her name, tearing her from her thoughts. Giving her head a shake, she answered him.

"I remember."

"The time has long passed when my present meant as much to me as my past. My present means more to me, Laura, far more." Her eyes widened and pulse sped up at the unexpected admission, the tentative gruffness with which he spoke, underscoring his heartfelt belief in the words he'd said. "I give you my word I won't do anything to tarnish the image we've worked so hard to cultivate or to place at risk my coming home. I _am_ coming home, Laura. I'll remind you of that each day if need be." Unseen, she closed her eyes and nodded. "Laura?"

"I'm here." The softness of her tone told him she'd heard and at least wished to believe.

"Now, then, on to more important matters. What are you wearing?" Laughter bubbled past her lips, the question from so afar of left field.

"What?"

"It's been more than a day since I've last set eyes on your lovely form. I want to be able to imagine you, just as you are, right now." With another much needed laugh, she gave her head a shake and peered down at herself.

"My navy suit and a white blouse," she provided.

"The navy with the nipped waist, shawl collar or pinstripe?"

She studied the outfit again. He was the fashion expert in the office, not she or Mildred. But she did at least know what the nipped waist suit was. On the days she wore that particular suit to the office, he tended to be a bit more handsy than normal. And it most definitely wasn't the pinstripe.

"Ummmm, the shawl collar, I believe." He hummed his approval. Easing down to lie his head on his pillow, he closed his eyes, allowing his imagination free rein.

"Navy pumps?" She glanced at her feet.

"Yes."

"White stockings?" he asked with enough hope in his voice, that she couldn't help but laugh again. He never failed to let his disdain for pantyhose to be known.

"Sorry," she rejected. "Nude hose."

"Pffft. Bare legged then," he replied, altering the image slightly in his mind. "Your hair? Up or down?"

"Front up, back down." One side of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Wearing one of your fedoras today, were you?" he guessed.

"How did you—" She stopped herself before finishing the question. No, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"In your office, feet up on the corner of your desk? Hmmm?" This time there was no holding back the words.

"How could you possibly know that?" she demanded.

"Laura, I've been watching you for nearly four years now. You'd be surprised just how well I know you." She pursed her lips at that.

"Oh?" she drew out the word. "Do tell." He laughed low in his through.

"Perhaps another time. For now, I believe I'll keep that to myself," he teased.

"Your turn," she ordered. He didn't need to inquire as to what she meant.

"The black silks." Desire coursed through her veins. She loved that pair of pajamas on him, particularly when he didn't bother with the shirt.

"Shirt on or off?" she pursued, even as she scolded herself. The last thing she needed was to get herself… itchy… while he was thousands of miles away and she was in the office nursing a headache.

"I'm not a heathen, Laura," he feigned insult. "I'm a guest in someone else's home. On, of course."

"Pffft," she mimicked his earlier response to her pantyhose. A wide grin lit his face. He decided to test the waters a bit.

"What delightful little undergarments might I discover beneath that suit? Hmmmm?"

" _Mr. Steele_ ," she pretended affront, "I'm at work!" _Oops. Those waters are a bit chilly. Retreat, retreat._ Before he had a chance, her voice took on a smoky tone and she added, "Besides, knowing I was wearing the pink teddy you're particularly fond of would only serve to frustrate you… and there's little relief near at hand."

"Ohhhh," he groaned aloud. As she'd known it would, his body had reacted viscerally to the image of her in the clingy scrap of material someone had the audacity to refer to as an undergarment. It emphasized her tiny waist, the delightful curve of her bum, her perfect sternum, lovely shoulders… the gentle swell of her breasts. He groaned aloud a second time. "You're a cruel woman, Laura." She rewarded his discomfort with a sultry little laugh.

"I know. _Goonight_ , Mr. Steele."

"Goodnight, Miss Holt."

* * *

"Alright, Mildred, where do we stand with those backgrounds?" Laura inquired, perching a hip on the corner of Mildred's desk at the close of the business day.

"I come up with _nothin',"_ Mildred answered, turning her chair around to face the true owner of the Remington Steele Agency. Laura let out a long, relieved breath.

"Good. Then we know that's an avenue no longer open for Keyes to exploit." She picked up her purse and prepared to stand. It had been a long day and she was ready to go home, pull on shorts and a t-shirt and go for a run.

"You don't get it," Mildred accused. Laura dropped her purse back down, and crossed her arms while raising a brow at the older woman.

"What is it, exactly, that I don't get?" she asked, curious.

"I come up with _nothing_." She picked up the papers on her desk and shoved the first stapled bundle towards Laura. "Paul Fabrini, doesn't exist, at least not one close to the Boss's age." She added a second stapled stack. "Richard Blaine. Plenty of those around the Bosses age, but either they have no passport or the picture doesn't match the Boss." A third, fourth and fifth handed off. "Michael O'Leary, Douglas Quintaine and Jean Murel, same as Blaine." She handed her two single pieces of paper. "Not only that, but last year there were droves of information on the thefts of the _Five Nudes of Cairo_ and the Marchessa Collection. And now?" Laura's eyes scanned the sheet.

"Nothing," she drew out the word when full understanding dawned. Papers in hand, she stood and paced away a few steps, then turned around pace slowly back across the length of the room. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to erase Mr. Steele's past. When Scotland Yard didn't pursue those passports last year, I assumed the Earl had persuaded the authorities to look the other way, given Mr. Steele's involvement in thwarting his assassination. But to make certain his past was so thoroughly scrubbed clean? It couldn't have been easy, gaining the cooperation of multiple agencies in multiple countries. It seems above and beyond, if you ask me."

"Maybe it wasn't the Earl," Mildred suggested with a shrug of her shoulder.

"Maybe it wasn't," Laura agreed thoughtfully. "But then who?" She set aside the thought for now, although the question would be foremost on her mind during her run that evening. "Good work, Mildred. Let's call it a day. I'll walk with you to your car."

* * *

"I want to picture you, Laura," Remington's still sleep-raspy voice requested that evening, much as he had that afternoon. "What are you wearing?" A corner of her mouth lifted upwards in an amused grin.

"Is this going to become a habit?" she wondered aloud.

"It might," he answered, without apology. "I miss you, Laura," he admitted, before he could consider the words and old habits left him hiding from her.

"I miss you, too," she told him in a quiet, heartfelt tone. It was new for them, this type of honesty… and a bit nerve racking, in truth. But if he could manage it, so could she. _Tit for tat,_ she silently noted. "Ask me again."

"What are you wearing, Laura?" She could hear the smile in his voice, his thankfulness that she hadn't left him baring his feelings aloud, alone. Her eyes skittered over her petite frame, and a mischievous gleam lit her eyes.

"Not a thing," she replied, intentionally adding a husky layer to her voice. The vision that pranced through his head, coupled with the sound of her voice, left him swallowing hard before a smile of his own lit his face.

"Mmmm, a truly tantalizing image," he hummed his approval, then laughed warmly. "But I suspect we both know you're not lounging about in your altogether when I'm not there to render you in such a state. So, tell me, what is it you're wearing." Her smile widened, and she laughed softly.

"A pair of bike shorts and one of your white dress shirts," she admitted, warmth infusing her as she realized he'd once again proven exactly how well he _did_ know her.

"And your hair?" She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of his voice.

"I showered after my run," she told him by way of answer. On the other side of the line, he closed his eyes and slung an arm over them. The image, one that he'd savored over the last months, came easily to mind: Her, wrapped in his clothing, the natural curl of her hair left untamed… for him. Quiet longing made his stomach clench.

"Hmmm," he hummed. "Truly the stuff dreams are made of, Miss Holt. Now, tell me where you are."

"It's nearly midnight, Mr. Steele, and I have work in the morning," she reminded him.

"In bed, then," he concluded. "On your side or mine?" The answer to that question caught her by surprise. Except for when she and Wilson were together, she'd always migrated towards the left side of the bed and whereas Wilson had never ever considered swapping sides, Remington had, from the first night, graciously conceded that side of the bed to her. But, what surprised her was not her sudden insight into yet another difference between Remington and Wilson… it was that she discovered she'd positioned herself slightly to the right of the center, the very place she normally slept when Remington was in bed beside her.

"The middle, actually." Behind his arm, he nodded his head, able to see her fully in his mind.

"Now, tell me about the rest of your day," he directed. Grabbing his pillow, she wrapped her arms around it then burying in her face in it, breathed deeply, immersing herself in his scent, even as she shook her head in refusal.

"I'd rather hear your voice," she surprised him by saying. "Do you have any more stories about Marcos?" He frowned, it taking a minute for him to understand what she was referencing then his face softened. _Ah, Laura._ He'd shared with her a story of his time with Marcos on the night after her home had burned to the ground. She'd been frightened, had felt wholly alone in the world, and the story had offered her comfort.

"I do. Close your eyes, Laura," he ordered.

In a quiet voice meant to soothe, he shared with her another tale of his days with Marcos, the smuggler in Greece that had left a profound mark upon his life, the man's outlook on life one that he'd tried to carry with him even as he found himself sleeping, huddled in the corner of an alley, praying for warmth. Unlike that night nearly two years before, there were no grandiose imitations of the man, no climatic rises in the volume of his voice. The soft, familiar tenor of his voice lulled her and soon she was battling to stay awake.

"''Life holds many surprises for us, Xenos,' he told me after. "'Often it is what frightens us the most in the beginning that will bring us the greatest of blessings in the end.'" he finished.

"That's nice," she mumbled, drowsily. She didn't even bother to attempt to suppress the yawn when it came.

"Goodnight, Miss Holt," he bade.

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele," she echoed automatically.

"Hang up the phone, Laura."

"Okay."

Moments later the dial tone droned in his ear. Sitting up on the edge of his bed, he hung up the phone and rubbed at his face.

As Marcos had been about so many things, he'd been right in this as well. Staying, even when the urge to flee was nearly overwhelming, was the hardest and most frightening thing he'd ever done in his life.

And look at the rewards.

With that thought in mind, he stood and began to prepare for the day ahead.

Nearly two days down, and far too many still left ahead.


	21. Chapter 21: An Offer

Chapter 21: An Offer

"I see you're at it bright and early, Daniel," Thomas Phillips, Earl of Claridge and tenth in the line of succession for the British throne, commented as he entered his library.

"Early relative to myself at least," Daniel agreed, exchanging handshakes with the man. "You know Har-… Remington Steele, of course.

"Lord Phillips," Remington greeted with a formal nod of his head.

"Thomas, please," the Earl corrected, offering a hand to Remington. As they exchanged handshakes, the Earl took a slight step back his eyes perusing the man across from him. "It's good to see you again, Remington."

"The pleasure is mine."

"I hear you're going to assist in Daniel's project this morning?" Daniel stepped to Remington and slapped him on the back, propelling the younger man forward a step and earning Daniel a frown over the shoulder.

"The boy's the best there is," he bragged. "If he can't crack the safes, then your valuables are as secure as they'd be within the confines of Buckingham Palace."

"Last evening, just as I'd do on any job, I reviewed the schematics of the SK2000. That it's hardwired into the alarm system seems to be its greatest advantage over competing models," Remington explained. "If you wouldn't mind showing me where the alarm and electric panels are."

"Daniel." Thomas singular use of Daniel's name indicated he should take the lead.

"Of course. Right this way, my boy."

Remington studied the alarm panel, identifying the main power source as well as the circuit the safe was set to. In only a couple minute's time, he was able to identify the circuit assigned to the alarm system and using a series of conductive clips, gave his nod of approval before the trio retired to the den again. Four turns of the dial on the safe, he gave the handle a yank, and easily opened the door.

"Incredible," the Earl murmured. "We purchase the best safe on the market and in mere minutes it is fully breached."'

"To the contrary, the safe is a fine model," Remington disagreed. "There's but a handful of individuals on the Continent skilled enough to crack the safe and those are not well verse on electronic monitoring. As it stands now, the wiring is so… organized… that any bugger could easily follow the route. It's simply too direct. I would suggest an illusion of chaos combined with a couple of choice booby traps. I've a great deal of time on my hands at the moment and would be happy to lend my assistance."

"I'd hate to burden you on your holiday," Thomas answered. "I can't imagine, in your line of work, that you're able to take much time away to simply enjoy yourself."

"Actually, I find myself at loose ends at the moment. I'll be here – well, at the very least in Europe – for the next several months while a matter is resolved back home." The Earl looked at Remington with interest.

"Should you have time on your hands, there's a little project I've had on my mind. Perhaps I might convince you to offer up some of your time, as well as your thoughts." Remington fingered his chin, thoughtfully.

"I must admit, I'm intrigued, although I can't say for certain how long I'll be in London." Thomas lay a companionable hand on Remington's shoulder.

"Then perhaps I might be able to convince you to extend your stay for a spell. If you wouldn't mind keeping me company as I see to something, I can explain what it is I have mind. I'm sure Daniel is fairly itching to get to his morning rounds." Daniel cleared his throat.

"Yes, you're quite right," he confirmed. "And after, if you might spare a few minutes so we can go over some changes I'd recommend at Chesterfield Manor."

"You'll join us for lunch, then," the Earl decided.

"Of course. I'll just be on my way for now." With those parting words, Daniel left the room, leaving the Earl and Remington to themselves.

"Would you mind joining me?" Thomas requested of the younger man, beckoning with an arm to the doorway and the hall beyond.

"Not at all."

Remington couldn't deny that Thomas had roused his curiosity. _Him_ be of aid to a member of the peer? He may have been born in Ireland, but he had enough of the Brit in him, that he couldn't help preening a bit: A member of the peerage asking him for assistance! He couldn't imagine how. Well, outside of putting the Earl's serial killer brother-in-law-to-be behind bars, clearing the Earl's good name in the process and, of course, that little matter of foiling an assassination plot that would have left the Earl six feet under.

He didn't disguise his surprise at the room Thomas directed him into.

"I know it's not quite the thing for a man of my position," Thomas related, "But I've always found cooking to be most relaxing.

"I don't find it odd at all, actually," Remington replied, "I enjoy cooking quite a lot myself. And thank goodness I do. If I relied on Laura to make our meals…" He shuddered comically, garnering a chuckle from the Earl as he dropped an onion, mushroom, sun dried tomatoes and tomatoes on the counter.

"Would you like to join me?" the Earl inquired, indicating the vegetables before him. "While I much prefer experimenting with French and Indian cuisine, I woke this morning with an inexplicable hunger for cottage pie." Remington's eyes lit up.

"Cottage pie? My God, it must be a good decade and a half since I last had it." He spoke as he removed jacket and tie, slinging both over the back of a barstool. Rolling up his sleeves, he rubbed his hands together with relish. "What do you need me to do?" Thomas set four small bowls, a cutting board and a chopping knife on the counter.

"If you'll be so good as to chop these fine, I'll see to peeling the potatoes and setting them to boill." Thomas handing Remington a white apron, then tied one around himself as well.

"My pleasure," Remington agreed. And it was indeed his pleasure. He'd love to have a new meal up his sleeve to prepare Laura when he returned home. "Tell me about this project of yours," he suggested, as the two men worked companionably alongside one another.

"It's a project inspired by you actually," Thomas announced. Remington's hands stilled over the onion he was chopping and looked up in surprise.

"By me?" he asked, lifting a pair of brows.

"Mmmm," the Earl confirmed as he turned the oven on to preheat and set a pot of water and large saute pan on the stove. "Daniel shared with me, some months ago, the story of how he found you upon the streets of Brixton, unwanted, alone, trying to survive." Dropping a bag of potatoes on the counter, he reached for one and began peeling it. "I've lived in London nearly the entirety of my life. I'd heard such tales, of course, but I suppose I simply didn't want to believe they were more than that: a tale. After our conversation, I spent a few days touring the area and—"

"Forgive me, Lord Phillips, but do you believe it's wise for a gentleman such as yourself to be strolling those particular streets?" Remington suggested. "On the best of days, you'd be a target for pick-pocketing, mugging, or worse. And, as I remember it, the last time Laura and I were here in London, the streets of Brixton were rioting once more."

"Thomas," the other man reminded, to which Remington lifted a hand of apology. "To the contrary, it occurred to me that as a member of the peer and a lifelong Londoner, it was an obligation to see firsthand what it was happening in my own backyard, so to speak, and to take whatever steps were needed to improve the conditions, should I be able to."

"A notion to be applauded, for certain, but at what risk to yourself?" Remington countered. "You can hardly affect change should you be left laying in a gutter with a knife in your gut."

"And if I were to turn my back on the plight of children fighting for survival on those streets, what kind of man would that make me?" Thomas argued. The knife in his hand paused over the potato he was peeling, as his eyes glazed over with faraway thought. "I haven't always been a good man, Remington. In my rage at the loss of my son, I turned to drink and took that anger out on young women who'd nothing whatsoever to do with my circumstances." He gave his head a small shake and returned to reality, knife once again paring the potato. "I can't change the past, but perhaps, in some small way, I might be able to give something back." Remington nodded his understanding, a passel of regrets not a foreign feeling unto himself.

"What do you have in mind?"

"A refuge, if you will, for wayward youth," Thomas proposed. "I found a building for sale off of Tunstall. The lower level is a restaurant in desperate need of renovation, the upper three levels are apartments, four for a total of twelve units comprised of thirty bedrooms, twelve baths. Two of those units would be designated for whomever it is that we hired to manage the restaurant and a house mother or father, so to speak. Still, it would provide the opportunity to remove two dozen of those children from the streets, giving them a chance at a real future."

"A worthy endeavor indeed," Remington acknowledged, using the edge of the knife to scrape the now chopped onions into a bowl. But not all those children are simply lost, Thomas. If those streets resemble the ones I lived upon, some of those children are veritable sociopaths in the making, willing to put a knife in your back as soon as look at you." He turned his attention to the mushrooms.

"True, true, so we'd need a process to weed those individuals out, to identify those thrust into the streets as pooposed to wanting to be there," Thomas concurred.

"So how is it that you envision I can help?" Remington inquired.

"Who better than a man who once lived on those very streets to identify those trapped by, not reveling in, the depravity?" Thomas proposed. "Then there is the need for someone to oversee getting the project off to a sound start. I can purchase the building and finance its renovations easily enough and I've any number of associates always seeking a charitable write off, which would support the fiscal demands of such an endeavor. But I'd like someone I trust to oversee the restorations and from what Daniel tells me, you've a keen eye for details."

"I'm flattered," Remington answered, as he moved from the mushrooms to the sun-dried tomatoes, "But, again, I've no idea how long I'll be in London. My time here was meant to be nothing more than a layover, of sorts, until I decided where to spend these next months."

"Is there a reason you can't spend that time here? I've three residences here in London, beyond the one in which we now stand. If it is privacy you're seeking, you could choose amongst them and simply consider it recompense for your endeavors." Sweeping the sun-dried tomatoes into a bowl, Remington moved the tomatoes to the cutting board.

"That wouldn't be necessary. There's more than sufficient room at Daniel's." He made quick work of the tomatoes, and once they were in the bowl, he dropped the knife and lifted his hand to gnaw at his thumb nail nervously. "However, there's Laura to consider. I'd want to talk any decision over with her first and, to be truthful, she's planning on several trips over the pond and I'd hoped to take her to various cities through Europe that's she yet the opportunity to experience."

"How is your Miss Holt?" Thomas inquired, politely.

"Fine, fine. As determined as ever. The Agency's keeping her busy at home."

They continued the small talk throughout the meal preparation, and the meal that followed, not departing from the Earl's home until near the dinner hour. When they arrived back at Daniel's, Remington found himself in a kitchen once again, in search of a cup of tea.

The familiarity of puttering about in this particular kitchen was comforting, and he relaxed enough to allow his mind to wander. There was a certain… allure… to the Earl's offer, he had to admit. In his years living upon those Brixton streets he'd witnessed many a child destroyed by the hardships of living there. Young girls, not much older than Mindy, feeling they were left with no recourse but to ply their bodies for trade, just so they might find themselves a decent meal on the day. Children as young as ten, sought out by predators, raped, beaten and left for dead, and should they survive, they were left thoroughly broken. Pre-teens and teens that had escaped homes where they'd been brutalized, only to discover the streets were often far less kind.

To help those that could be saved, who wished to be saved? It was a heady thought.

Taking his cup of tea to the small table tucked against the wall of the kitchen, he sat down to enjoy the relative peace.

Cold nights when you could swear your bones themselves were freezing. Miserable nights spent huddled in an alleyway no amount of cardboard able to prevent you from being drenched by the torrential rains. Steamy nights when you prayed for just such a downpour. Days, weeks, months, years, keeping on eye over your shoulder, lest someone decide to attack your flank. All of it preferable to the gnawing hunger that clawed at you for days at a time, finally rendering one willing to dig through garbage pails for anything to make the hunger subside.

It wasn't an existence suitable to an animal let alone a child.

But, if he were to take on the task, to get this project off the ground, how would one choose a mere two dozen children from the hundreds hidden in abandoned buildings and warehouses, living in alleyways, behind businesses. It was a daunting task, to be certain.

Then, too, was there was the matter of overseeing the renovation. He'd no idea of building codes or whatever else might be required and even the idea of furnishings was a bit daunting. Laura was the one with a designer's flare on a frugal budget, not he. It was, after all, she who had selected the furnishings in his flat. After a lifetime of living light so that he might pack up and leave on a moment's notice, even after four years in LA, his contributions to the flat had been minimal: his posters, a few pieces of art, the large screen TV and VCR, and, of course, the kitchen he'd stocked with meticulous care. But that was hardly the same as providing even the basic needs for twelve units.

Not for the first time, he wished Laura was there by his side. As it were, before bd he'd solicit her input, certain she'd be able to quickly assess the situation and develop a list of pro's—

He was drawn from his thoughts when Tilly walked through the kitchen, never so much as acknowledging him, to open the oven and check the progress of the pork roast she'd prepared for supper.

"Still angry with me, Tildy?" he dared to ask.

With merely a glare in his direction, she left the room.

Exhaling a long sigh, Remington pushed to his feet. After his cup was washed and set in the drain board, he departed for his room, to switch to more casual attire for the evening.

* * *

"So, tell me, Daniel, how is it that my days in Brixton came to be a topic of conversation between the Earl and yourself, hmmmm?" Remington inquired, tossing two cards in front of him on the table. "Two." Daniel dealt the cards, then exchanged three of his own.

"It's not as though I've not shared how we met before, my boy," Daniel pointed out.

"Yes, but neither to people who know who I now am nor to people closely associated with the government, Daniel," Remington replied in a censorious tone as slid a pair of chips towards the ante. "Remington Steele's dossier says nothing about him growing up a homeless youth. Should word get out and questions arise, Laura will be furious."

"Relax, Harry. The man bears you no ill will." Daniel tossed several chips to the center. "I'll see you and raise you fifty."

"This coming from the man who eschews the very notions of trust and loyalty?" Remington added a couple more chips. "I call."

"Queen high straight," Daniel announced, splaying out the cards and reaching for the chips.

"Not so fast, old man," Remington warned him off, laying his cards on the table, then jabbing them with an index finger. "Flush." He took the deck Daniel passed to him and began to shuffle as he glanced at his watch. "One more hand, then I'm off to prepare for bed."

"So soon? The night's barely gotten started, Harry," Daniel noted, clearly disgruntled.

"Mmmm, yes," he agreed. It was just past eleven London time. "But more charming company than your own awaits me, even it is from afar." He flashed as quick smile. "Besides, if you don't mind me borrowing a car, I'd like to go 'round Brixton tomorrow morning, have a look at this building the Earl spoke of, perhaps get a feel for where things stand these days."

"Thinking of taking Thomas up on his request?"

"Seven card, deuces wild" Remington announced, dealing them each a pair of cards face down, then tossing a pair of chips into the center of the table. "Ante up." He took a long draw of his brandy then set down the snifter. "Considering, yes. Decided, no. I'd like to get Laura's input before making a decision on the matter and I imagine she'll need a good deal more information than I've at hand at the moment."

"Five-thousand miles away yet Linda still has her clutches in you," Daniel groused, add a pair of chips to the center of the table. Remington dealt a card up to each of them, then added another chip.

"It's not like that, Daniel. Laura and I are partners. One of the reasons we've been so effective is that she often sees details I overlook and vice-versa." Another card was dealt after Daniel deposited a chip of his own. "Even more so, she can have Mildred research salient details such as codes and the agencies whose cooperation we'd need in order to make this little project of the Earl's a reality." The hand continued to play out.

"And you believe Thomas hasn't investigated these very things?" Daniel challenged. "The man's nothing if not a stickler for details."

"I'm sure he has," Remington conceded. "However, I'd feel more comfortable knowing what I might be getting myself into before I agree. It's no different than planning a heist. Have you ever known me to take something on without understanding the potential risks versus rewards, what surprises might await me?" Daniel nodded his head to the side, acknowledging the point.

"Feel free to help yourself to the Austin Healy," Daniel offered. "She's still somewhat of an eyesore, so I doubt the scallywags in Brixton will understand what's right under their noses. I'll raise your twenty-five."

"I call," Remington replied.

"Two pairs, aces over kings," Daniel announced in a self-satisfied voice. Lifting his snifter, Remington drained his glass and set it down, before revealing his cards."

"Four three's." Standing, Remington gathered his chips. "We'll settle up in the morning. I hate to say it, Daniel, but your slipping. You should mark your cards better. Goodnight."

Daniel glowered at the cards as Remington left the room. The night's game had cost him nearly three-hundred pounds… and the problem wasn't in how poorly he'd marked the cards, but that he'd forgotten to do so at all.


	22. Chapter 22: A Case

Chapter 22: A Case

The morning had been relatively sedate at the Remington Steele Agency. Two new clients had walked through the doors, both needing skip traces that hadn't required more than an hour of time each. Now, at a little after two in the afternoon, all cases prior to Remington's departure had officially been closed, the files resting in the closed file cabinet drawers.

She'd forgotten to speak with him the evening before, about his sudden lack of a past and it still made her nervous. Very nervous.

That and Keyes's threats. Well, she might not be able to do much about the former, but she could try to hedge their bets on the latter. Opening her office door, she strode out to the reception area.

"Mildred, I want a full background on Norman Keyes and I want _everything_ : Criminal record, civil law suits, full financials, all living family members, and complaints filed against him with the Board of Investigations. If he's _sneezed_ in church... if he _goes_ to church... I want to know about it." Mildred scribbled as Laura ticked the items off. "Leave no stone unturned. If he has a weakness, we're going to identify it."

"You got it. Gotten under your skin, has he?" Mildred speculated.

"Let's just say," Laura drew out the words, while stroking her throat with a set of fingers, "That I don't like late night visits that are filled with threats and innuendos." Dropping her hand, she began to pace. "With Mr. Steele in Europe, I don't imagine his threats hold any water, unless…" She snapped her fingers and pointed at Mildred, "Look specifically for any links between Keyes and agents at the INS on the off-chance that he has a connection whom might interfere with Mr. Steele's return home."

"Will do," Mildred agreed, scrawling some more on the paper. "How are things going with your mother, honey?" Laura gave her a rueful glance.

"I guess I'll find out tonight," she replied. "Command dinner appearance at Frances's. I imagine Mother will have a good deal to say about my walking out on lunch yesterday, at the very least." Mildred's eyes nearly bugged out of her head at that tidbit of information.

"You _walked out_? Oh, ho, honey," Mildred guffawed as she stood and walked around the desk. "I might not have met your mother, but from the little I've heard, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes tonight."

"I know, I know," Laura bemoaned, tossing her hands up then covering her face with them. "She just… I just…"she dropped her hands and walked to the couch, flopping most ungracefully down upon it. "Why is it the woman is always able to make me feel like the twelve-year-old kid who could never measure up?!" She raised and dropped her hands again. "It wasn't as if I was expecting a _pleasant lunch,_ " she stated with exaggerated reason. "What I didn't expect was for her to turn on Rem… Mr. Steele. She's _always_ liked him!" Frustration made her voice rise. "But all it took was _one picture_ in the newspaper of us kissing and suddenly he's having his cake and eating it too!" Mildred leaned her ample bottom against the edge of her desk.

"Maybe you should point out that… dessert… hasn't exactly been served for as long as she might believe," she suggested.

"I'm not going to do _that,"_ she protested with horror. "Not only is that none…" she cut her hand in cross of herself for emphasis "…of her business, but I'd also be begging for the cow lecture, and believe you me," she pushed to her feet to pace again, "I've heard it enough for a lifetime… _ten_ lifetimes."

"The cow lecture?" Mildred laughed aloud.

"You know," Laura puffed. "Why buy the cow…"

"When you can get the milk for free," a woman's voice completed from behind them. Laura spun on her heel while Mildred stood up abruptly.

"I'm sorry," Laura apologized, chagrined they'd been caught talking about private matters. She held out her hand to the other woman, eyes narrowing slightly at the woman's large, dark sunglasses. "Can I help you?"

"Is Remington Steele available?"the woman inquired in a throaty voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Steele's out of the country on business at the moment. I'm Laura Holt, his partner. Is there something I can help you with?" The woman turned her head ever so slightly in Mildred's direction then back.

"Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

"Yes, of course, right this way."

Laura held out a hand towards to the door to Remington's office, offering Mildred an apologetic look over her shoulder. The older woman simply shrugged it off. She was used to people thinking she was just the secretary. She didn't care for it, but was used to it.

"How can I help you Miss—?" Laura asked as she closed the door behind her and indicated a chair next to the desk.

"Mrs.," the woman corrected in that same throaty voice. "Mrs. Denks, Marney Denks," she introduced herself. Once seated, she removed her sunglasses to reveal a striking pair of light blue eyes that verged on silver. It was a testament to Laura's professionalism that she never allowed her eyes to linger on the bruise partially encircling one of those eyes. "A friend, Alma Jelsma, recommended your agency. A friend of hers had used your company's services during a particularly nasty divorce."

"Did she say who?" Laura asked as she sat down in Remington's chair. "We'd like to thank them for the word-of-mouth."

"She didn't, and I'm not one to pry. It's one of the reasons I came here. Alma said you use the utmost discretion."

"And we do," Laura assured. "How can we help you Mrs. Denks?"

"Six months ago my husband, Virgil, received an offer to buy out the construction company he'd built from the ground up." The woman winced. "Sorry for the pun."

"It's alright," Laura smiled. "Go on."

"He'd only had the company for eleven years, but five years ago managed to secure a contract to build twenty luxury homes in a private subdivision, I guess you'd call it although each lot was twenty acres or more. He'd work hand-in-hand with the architect and developer, with a voice on all the finishes. By the end of the project, with his work receiving raves, he decided to fully strike out on his own, hiring an in-house architect and interior designer," Mrs. Denks explained. "Soon, he was building mansions in Connecticut and the New York countryside. Homes which cost well into the tens of millions." Her nervous soliloquy ended on a sigh. "I was against the sale. We're young, both of us in our early thirties. We were finally financially stable, could start having a family. Why rock the boat? But Virg managed to convince me."

"Forgive me," Laura said after an extensive silence, "But I don't see why any of that would bring you to our Agency." Mrs. Denks's eyelids fluttered again and she once more dabbed at her eyes.

"I was a fool. He convinced me our future was in California. He'd start building again out here where properties like the one's he was building back home for sell for north of a hundred-million. The architect and interior designer he worked with back home had agreed to relocate as well," she continued. "We sold our house, and packed up everything but a couple of suitcases for me, and shipped everything to Hollywood Hills. My mother had fallen ill, you see, and with my father having died in an accident some years ago, I was all she had."Her head dropped forward and her sniffling grew earnest. "She passed two weeks ago."

"I'm so sorry," Laura quietly empathized. "Can I get you a glass of water, some tea?"

"No, thank you," Mrs. Denks declined and with a shudder, gathered herself together. "I'd rather just get this over with. It's humiliating enough as it is."

"By all means, then…"

"When Virg came home for the funeral, I just knew something was wrong. While he said and did all the right things, he still seemed… distant. I asked him if everything was okay between us and he assured me it was. So after he left, I put Mother's house on the market, and began settling her affairs, intent on joining Virg out here as quickly as I could. But I just couldn't shake that… feeling. Four days ago, I flew out here to surprise him, believing if we just had a week together after so much time apart, all would be fine." The blonde's eyes spilled over again, and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

Laura's head snapped towards the phone when the intercom buzzed. Snatching up the receiver, she turned physically away from the despondent woman.

"Now's not a good time, Mildred," she hissed into the receiver.

"But the Boss is holding for you, Miss Holt," Mildred exclaimed, her voice suggesting which was more important.

"Tell him I'm with a client and I'll call him back. He'll understand." She was about to hang up when she thought otherwise. "Oh, and Mildred, get his number." Dropping the receiver in the cradle, she returned her attention to the client, who'd recovered herself again. "What happened?"

"I walked in on him with our interior designer!" she cried out.

"Oh, my. I'm so sorry," Laura consoled.

"I know it's harder for a man than it is a woman to…" Mrs. Denks cast her eyes downward, "…go without. I would have understood if he'd had his needs taken care of by someone else, but not…" Her words ended in another round of tears.

"But not with your interior designer?" Mrs. Denk nodded her head, rapidly. "Did you know her well?"

"Our interior decorator isn't a her, it's a him," she wailed. "Geoffrey. Virg said he's done pretending. Everything goes in California. No more hiding in a closet! I screamed at him. Called him names, horrible names! I slapped him, and…" she raised a hand towards her face, "And he hit me back. Then he handed me these." She dug into her purse, and pulled out several sheets of paper. "He filed for a legal separation the day he returned to California after my mother's funeral. He claims abandonment. He's emptied out all our savings accounts, our checking and investment accounts. He's had all my credit cards stopped. If it weren't for the money my Mother left me and the proceeds from the sale of her house once its purchased, I'd be left with nothing! And now? Now?!" Her heartbreak was rapidly turning towards rage. She removed another set of folded papers from her purse. "A notice of trespass! He's claiming that nothing in the house belongs to me. The hell it doesn't, and I don't mean just the furniture that I picked out, the cookware and stemware I bought, the art on the walls. But this…" Three more sets of papers followed, and she at last fell silent as Laura looked those over. Registration, insurance forms, and her grandmother's will.

"So, the necklace, earrings and bracelet were left to you by your grandmother upon her death?" Laura verified.

"My great-grandparents were famed gemologists and jewelers in Austria before the Holocaust. Before they could be…. Evacuated… they escaped to Switzerland, taking with them only what they could carry: Clothing, a meager ration of food, cash and some of their collections to sell for shelter, a new beginning. This set is all they were able to salvage and it has been passed down each generation since. This is my family's legacy, Miss Holt! I have to get it back!"

"Do you know where it is?"

"Virg had a safe installed in the bedroom, right over the bed behind a picture. I saw it when he took the separation papers out of it. He didn't even have the decency to serve me, the bastard." The twitch of a brow was the only indication that Laura had acknowledged the rising rancor. Setting the papers down on the desk, she stood and walked around to the front, then leaned her backside against the edge while crossing her arms.

"I'm sure if you took this information to an attorney or even the police, it will all be returned to you in due time," she pointed out.

"The police told me the jewelry is part of the marital assets, making it a civil matter. The attorney I spoke with said we could go to court, get an injunction preventing my husband from disbursing of any assets until the property settlement is complete, but it'll take us almost two weeks to get it the request before a judge." Mrs. Denks was working her way towards hysteria again. "Miss Holt, I know for a fact someone has been offering to purchase those pieces from Virg – cash, no questions asked – for three years now. I can't lose them!" The screech in the woman's normally throaty voice made Laura flinch.

"So you want us to recover the pieces for you before that can happen?" she clarified.

"Yes!" Laura watched, fascinated, as Mrs. Denks's expression turned from desperate to cold as ice in the matter of a heartbeat. "And I want proof of his affair with Geoffrey. _Tangible_ proof. He's not taking everything we've worked for on the grounds that I abandoned him. As soon as I get home to Connecticut, I'm going to file for abandonment _and_ adultery!"

"What you're asking for, Mrs. Denks, would require a considerable number of man hours," Laura explained, trying to let the woman down easy. With no idea how Remington's absence might impact business at the Agency, they simply couldn't afford a customer not paying their going rate. "I'd have to stake out the house, familiarize myself with the coming-and-goings of your husband and maybe his friend. I'd need to tail your husband and his friend so I can _hopefully_ catch them in a compromising position. Then there's the time involved in formulating the best plan to retrieve your jewelry, not to mention the hours it—"

"I'm by no means destitute, Ms. Holt," Mrs. Denks rebuked. "My mother left me nearly two million dollars in cash." Fishing into her purse again, she pulled out a stack of banded money. "Will five-thousand work as a retainer?"

"Well, yes, it would. But would you mind telling me why you're carrying this kind of cash… in LA of all places? It's hardly safe," Laura questioned and lectured simultaneously. Out of habit, she ran her finger across the end of the bills and watched them whirl by. Looked like all hundreds to her.

"When I found out Virg had closed all our joint accounts, I pulled fifty-thousand out of my personal account then transferred the remaining to an account in the Caribbean." Unexpectedly, she began sobbing again. "I won't let him take everything, Miss Holt. I'm thirty-four-years old. For nine years I've wanted a child only to be told 'soon', 'we're almost there'. Now what do I have? No marriage. No child. Only the humiliation I'll have to face when people back home find out Virg left me for a man."

"Alright. Then let's get started," Laura decided. Sitting down at Remington's desk again, she opened a drawer, dropped the cash in, and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. "Tell me about your husband. What he looks like, where he lives. If you have a picture…"

* * *

"Steele, here," Remington answered the phone from where he lay in bed. He threw his arm back over his eyes, more out of irritation than due to comfort. It was a bit after midnight and his mood had turned increasingly more sour as ten minutes, then thirty, then seventy had ticked past on the clock while the phone had remained silent.

"It's me," Laura announced the obvious, kicking off her heels and crossing her feet on the corner of the desk.

"Not even three days gone and already I'm a nuisance to be shoved off to the side," he groused. She rolled her eyes, having anticipated such a pout.

"You know those white silk stockings you like so much?" His arm fell to the bed and his eyes popped open.

"Yes," he answered cautiously. It wouldn't be beyond her to tease him.

"I'm wearing them." A single brow hitched upwards, but still he tested her: fantasy or reality.

"And what else?" She glanced down.

"The pink dress with the pinstripes." Approval rumbled in his throat. He could see her easily in his mind's eye.

"Hair up or down?" She laughed softly.

"Up." He frowned and gave his head a snappy shake. "Take it down." She laughed much louder this time, the sound of it making him smile.

"I'm at work, Mr. Steele," she scolded. "The hair stays up. I don't have time to fix it." His face fell.

"That's what I love about you, Miss Holt," he grumbled. "You've a knack for turning a fantasy into reality." Her brows lifted at that.

"I seem to recall having fulfilled more than one fantasy for you," she reminded, a smile on her lips.

"Yet dozens left to go. Perhaps when you visit—"

"Could be. We'll see." He heard the smile in her voice and his own lips lifted in answer. "You turn."

"Royal silks with the red piping," he responded obediently. She sighed in disappointment.

"For a man who once had bimbos lined up down the corridor, you're not very good at this," she lamented, drawing a chuckle from him.

"Without the shirt, of course," he prevaricated. She murmured her approval.

"Much better. If I close my eyes, I can feel my cheek laying against your chest." Warmth infused his body, as he envisioned exactly that. God, he missed it. "Now, tell me about your day…"

* * *

"Mildred, Mr. Steele needs you to see what you can find on business codes for restaurants and apartment buildings in England and what hoops need to be jumped through to create a long-term homeless shelter for children," Laura rattled off as she stepped out of her office.

"Before or after I finish the background on Keyes?" Mildred inquired. Pursing her lips, Laura gave it some thought.

"Before," she answered, emphatically. "I'd like to have some information to give him tonight when he calls.

"You got it." Mildred eyed Laura shrewdly. "Wanna fill me in on Weeping Wendy?" Laura frowned at her, perplexed.

" _On who?_ "

"The lady that just left," Mildred hitched her pen in the direction of the door.

"Oh. Mrs. Denks. Yet another victim who fell prey to the myth of happily-ever-after," Laura replied.

"Cheating louse, huh?" Mildred surmised. Laura snapped her fingers then pointed at Mildred, confirming the correctness of her guess. As a thought registered, her eyes lit up and she smiled wide.

"And _my_ get out of jail free card," she announced. "I need to call Frances and cancel our dinner plans. Surveillance, after all, waits on no one's mother."

She fairly floated out of the reception area and back into her office. The smile never left her face as she picked up the phone and dialed.


	23. Chapter 23: Connecting

_**A/N: Contains NC-17 material. If you are under 18 or uncomfortable with such content please continue to the next chapter when it's published.**_

* * *

Chapter 23: Connecting

Laura's eyes searched the grounds of the home below her, looking for any sign of movement. She'd arrived in Hollywood Hills shortly before sunset when the waning light would allow her to scout the area for the best place to both conceal the Rabbit and watch over the elaborate, Spanish-style contemporary villa located right off Hollywood Boulevard. It always amazed her how people confused seclusion with privacy. From where she sat in a grove of trees on a hillside located about a hundred feet above the home, she had a nearly unobstructed view of driveway, garages, front door… and into at least a half dozen rooms within the home, thanks to the banks of wall-to-ceiling glass on the backside of the house.

While the exterior of the house appeared modest at first glance – at least in comparison to the many mansions scattering the Hills – the house bespoke of the enormous ego of the owner. Perched on a cliff overlooking Los Angeles, the home was meant for someone who wished to look down their noses, literally, at the masses below.

And what is it they say? Pride cometh before the fall. These hills had seen more than their share of slides of every type – land, mud, rock – not to mention several wildfires that had threatened the pricey homes. Whoever had built this home had done so at the height of folly, as far as she was cornered. with one side of the home lined up against a cliff's edge, the zero lot line offered no protection from erosion or slides. But it was the back of the house that truly left her shaking her head as a large terrace was pitched out over nothingness.

Out of nowhere, the memory of another stakeout swamped her.

* * *

" _ **Dashing Dave to Dollface. Come in, Dollface. Over."**_

" _ **Doll—Laura, here. There's really no need for code names. How are things where you sit?"**_

" _ **To paraphrase a great American leader: 'Surveillance is hell.' Any sign of Ray down on your end?"**_

" _ **Uh-uh. And I'm freezing."**_

" _ **Well, perhaps this might… thaw… you out a bit. Um, picture a ski lodge. In the center, a fireplace."**_

" _ **A stone fireplace with a large, roaring fire."**_

" _ **And people all around, their faces glowing in the light."**_

" _ **I see only two people. A man… and a woman. Shoes off… feet by the hearth…"**_

" _ **They're sitting very close together. Mugs of… ummm… hot buttered rum in hand…"**_

" _ **Toasting one another on a splendid run down the slopes…"**_

" _ **He leans into her…"**_

" _ **And she to him…."**_

* * *

A sneeze, by her, then the case at hand, had ruined the moment.

If they had taken that trip to Aspen, as planned, would things have been different? Who knew how much a single choice might change everything that came after. If they'd gone to Aspen, would they have arrived home in time to take on the Grogan case – the very case that had them first crossing paths with Keyes? Would she have ever have met Westfield, who'd turned her head – if only for a moment – and had cost she and Remington months, time that could have been used to work through things, to find their way to one another all the sooner.

The list of regrets and what-if's was endless and it seemed that no matter how often she reminded herself that one could not change the past, she still spent an inordinate amount of time, lately, wondering if one single decision could have changed….

Everything.

Pressing her palms over her eyes for a long second, she forced her mind back to the present. Dropping her hands, she picked up the camera, trained the zoom lens on the house below and scanned the perimeter, then those parts of the interior that she could see. Whoever Denks was, so far he'd proven a homebody… a solitary one at that.

She sat the camera back down, and patiently waited, leaving only after the lights in the house flickered off, one after the other, and it was dark.

* * *

Remington woke to his alarm at seven. With a groan, he rolled over, slapped at the off button and forced himself to sit up in bed, while rubbing at his face with his palms.

 _Laura, shower, Brixton, in that order,_ he reminded himself.

Dropping his hands, he shifted his jaw from side-to-side then reached for the phone. The phone in her loft rang endlessly… two rings… four… ten… fifteen. Giving up, he flopped back on the bed and mentally calculated the time difference. After eleven in LA. His brows knitted together in a frown. Far be it from him to ever imply to Laura she wasn't perfectly capable of taking care of herself but even common sense said a partner should not be 'optional' on late night stakeouts. How many cases had suddenly gone sideways on them, under the cover of darkness?

Too many times to count, his escalating heartbeat reminded him.

Maybe he should suggest Mildred accompany her. He dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived. Laura was as fiercely protective of those she cared about as he. While Mildred was sharp as a tact, she neither moved as quickly as they nor instinctively read them as they did one another. Which meant… Laura would be distracted, worrying first and foremost of Mildred, then only of herself. And the quickest way to guarantee disaster ensued was by not having your head fully in the game.

Sitting up again, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and contemplated trying again. There was a point when one crossed the line from trying to remain connected from afar to appearing desperate.

And that he certainly was, but he was also diametrically opposed to giving her the upper hand. Equality, that is what he wished for, what he'd worked so hard for.

Resolved, he dragged his hands through his hair, then stood up and gave his stomach a little scratch.

If Mick O'Leary was going to walk the streets of Brixton this morning, he'd first need to wash Remington Steele off of him.

* * *

Laura released the towel wrapped turban style around her head, and draped it neatly over the towel rack. After slipping on a pair of modest cotton underpants, she tugged her night shirt over her head, then drew a fast brush through her hair. It was nearly twelve-thirty and Remington had told her that afternoon he planned to leave no later than nine for Brixton.

If she willed herself to relax, the roughly thirty minutes they had to talk might send her off into her dreams with his voice in her ear.

She huffed at breath at herself in irritation. It had only been three days – _three days!_ – and borrowing from his reference the day prior, she was feeling like a homesick child calling home and begging her parents to pick her up.

Sliding beneath sheets and comforter, she rolled to her side and picked up the handset to her phone. After dialing his number, she turned off the lamp and returned to her back, dragging her fingers through her damp hair.

 _Brixton_. The thought of him returning to the violent streets where he'd fought for his very survival day-in-and-day-out made her blood run cold. Of everything in his past, it was of those days he was most reluctant to speak and on the rare occasions that he did, his mood would turn introspective and occasionally bleak.

She didn't want him reliving those days, not when she—

"Steele, here," Remington's voice carried through the line.

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she greeted, a smile playing her lips.

"Good evening, Miss Holt," he answered in return.

"I was beginning to think you'd left for Brixton already," she commented.

"Mmmm, not at all. I was just stepping out of the shower when you called. Furthermore, Remington Steele won't be going to Brixton today." Tugging the towel away from his hips, he sat down on the side of his bed and swiped at his wet hair. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. He hadn't meant he wasn't going, she knew, but that he'd chosen to shrug on another personality altogether. His ability to morph into different characters had always held her enthralled – and left her a bit jealous that he did it with such ease, to be honest – but the mantle he selected was often very telling in terms of where his head was at.

"Oh, and who will be going in your place?" she asked, adding a lightness to her voice to camouflage her unease. She envisioned the picture he'd painted of Brixton over the years. "Johnny Todd?" she hazarded a guess.

"Mick O'Leary, actually."

Mentally, she released a sigh of relief. Of all his favored roles, Mick O'Leary was the best she could have possibly hoped for. Lighthearted, at times devil-may-care, with a quick, dry wit, Mick was not only the most approachable but also the most adept at deflecting anything that might be troublesome. She always wondered if Mick was a large part of who Remington had been before those families… and Brixton… had left him thoroughly jaded about the human condition.

 _Mick is also sexy as hell,_ she mused, his inclinations running towards boots, jeans, a beat up brown leather jacket, untamed hair and his whiskers left scruffy.

 _Yum!_ She wouldn't mind Mick O'Leary stopping by for a little visit. _Well, he did express his hopes we might engage in a bit of fantasy when—_

"Lauuuuuuuuu-raaaaaaaaaa."

 _Damn. He's caught me napping again. When did my brain go to mush?_

"I'm here."

"Then paint me a picture," his voice caressed. A dimple flashed.

"Well, it won't be a racy one," she joked. "Hair down and damp, panties and a shirt."

"Details, Laura, details."

"They'll only make you shrivel your nose more than it already is," she warned. He barked out a laugh, for he'd indeed crinkled his nose in distaste at the uninspiring start of her description… until, that is, he'd realized she'd been evasively non-descript.

"Try me," he teased.

"Just remember I warned you," she answered, a breezy air to her tone. "White cotton panties…" He gave a little sniff of disdain for custom's sake, but, in truth, while those white panties of hers weren't his first choice for her – or him – he'd grown rather fond of the soft cotton that cupped the bottoms of her cheeks, the material hugging the curve of her bum.

"What shirt," he prompted again.

"Just a t-shirt," he answered. _'Just' a t-shirt?_ His brow lifted in curiosity. "I told you—"

"Which one? The red one?" The hem of that particular t-shirt barely flirted with the waistband of her panties, offering a tantalizing glance of her bare midriff when she walked… and invited his hand to splay against her tummy when they lay together. He could easily imagine being spooned around-

"No, not the red one." His face fell, that fantasy lying in ruins at his feet. Never one to be deterred, he searched his memory for other suitably sexy tees in her wardrobe. His brows lifted.

"Ah, your Stanford t-shirt," he hummed. After a decade of steady shrinking during washing, that particular t-shirt ended just at her waist. He'd enjoyed many a weekend day watching her prance about it and a pair of jog shorts, his eyes drawn to the exposed swath of skin as he imagined stroking the skin of that sensitive waist, making her squirm.

"No, not my Stanford t-shirt either." Annoyance flashed through him as another erotic fantasy was dispelled.

"Then which shirt, Lau-ra," he pursued. "For a woman who was so hasty to declare thatsz I'm not very good at these little exercises, you seem—" She rolled her eyes, as amusement danced on her lips.

"Just an old grey t-shirt," she interrupted. Again his mind seized on her too casual air. Whatever it was that she was evading, that shirt appeared to be at the center of it all. Then it clicked. "Your turn, Rem—"

" _My_ old grey t-shirt?" he questioned. Standing, he crossed the room and tugged open the dresser drawer containing his most casual shirts. "I can't believe it. You actually nicked my favorite shirt."

"I didn't 'nick' anything," she retorted with a laugh. "One could go so far as to say you abandoned it and I recovered it." A smile twitched at his lips.

"Oh, is that right? I wasn't aware packing an article of my wardrobe could be termed abandonment."

"Oh, but you never packed it. I found it in the hamper when I took the cleaning in yesterday." He sighed and drew a hand through his hair.

"I suppose I could just have you ship it to me. There are a couple of things I wouldn't mind—"

"When I'm done with it, maybe…" He sputtered to a stop, then couldn't help the laugh that followed.

"Are you honestly refusing to return _my—"_

"Well, you know what they say, Mr. Steele…" she drawled. His jaw fell open.

"Surely, you're not going to suggest some nonsense such as 'finders-keepers'." She smirked at the phone.

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'possession is nine-tenths of the law,'" she replied, then laughed aloud when he grumbled beneath his breath. "I think you've lost perspective," she chastised.

"Oh, how's that?"

"Picture me in the shirt, Mr. Steele." Instantly, the image of her walking across his flat, a coffee mug clutched in her hands flitted through his mind. The soft, thin jersey material stopped high on her thighs, showcasing a pair of knockout legs, her each step causing the fabric of his shirt to rub against the delightfully sensitive tips of her breast, hardening them. He swallowed hard, then groaned when his body roared to life.

"I see your point."

"I thought you might," she smiled. "Now, your turn." He looked downwards then to his hand.

"Ohhhhh, if sleep is on your mind, I don't know that we should travel down that particular road," he hesitated. She rolled to her side, cradling the phone beneath her ear and the pillow. The sounds of her sheets rustling, had an impertinent piece of his anatomy preparing to salute.

"Tit-for-tat, Mr. Steele," she reminded him.

"I've a towel—" She scrunched her face, having forgotten he'd just stepped from the shower when she called.

"Around your hips?"

"In my hand," he corrected. _Oh, God_. Need shimmered through her body. Unconsciously, she panted softly in his ear as she picture his tall, lean body, the thick mat of hair on his chest, the way it thinned just beneath his pecks, a short thin line leading to a firm, equally hair covered abdomen, before it thinned again as it headed south and—

"Oh, God." Her legs rubbed against each other – _Wait, did I say that out loud?_

"I tried to warn you," he reminded in a breathy voice. "Might I suggest we discuss something mind-numbingly dull? The case. Tell me about the case, Laura." She tried to force herself to concentrate.

"Marney Denks. Her husband left her for another man—"

"Another…? Yeesh. To each his own, I say, but that still must have been difficult for her," he noted, desperately trying to keep his mind on the conversation rather than envisioning slipping that t-shirt over her head, and lowering his lips to a breast to suckle at a tender bud.

"It was. It is," she replied, trying valiantly to keep her mind on the conversation, rather than imagining threading her fingers through the hair of his chest, while her lips play attendance to the skin beneath his ear as he moaned his pleasure. "And… to make matters worse, he's hidden their joint assets and has refused to return a set of pre-Holocaust jewels that her grandmother left her. She wants proof of his infidelity and her grandmother's collection back." She raised the flag of defeat. "Exactly how committed are you to leaving for Brixton at nine?"

"I can certainly delay until you fall asleep, if that's what you have in mind." Unseen, she shook her head slowly.

"It's not. Lock the door to your room and get comfortable, Remington." The sensual quality of her voice, the use of his first name, made his heart pound, and turned his mouth dry. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips.

"Laura, are you suggesting…"

"Lock the door," she repeated, her voice grown husky. The man had the most vivid imagination of anyone she'd ever known, and they'd have to find creative ways to stay close and to assuage their needs while they were apart. Right? And the thought of him taking himself in hand, doing as she suggested, already had her squirming where she lay in bed. Her heart pattered nervously in her chest, as he crossed the room, secured the door, then returned to sit down on the edge of the bed. "Are you comfortable?"

"I am," he agreed, as he lay back on the bed, anticipation beginning to supplant a surprising bout of nerves. He'd never… fully serviced himself… in front of Laura before. There had never been a need to given she enjoyed bringing him pleasure as much as he did her. They could spend an afternoon in bed, exploring one another's bodies, seeking to exploit old discoveries, while uncovering new ones. But there had been several occasions when he'd absently taken his erection in hand, stroked it, as he watched her disrobe before him. She'd seemed… fascinated… by the sight of him touching himself and an experimental swipe of his fingers between her legs would find her already wet before he'd laid the first hand upon her.

"Touch yourself, Remington," she ordered softly. Swallowing hard, he wrapped his hand around his already rock hard shaft. He groaned aloud, his breathing growing shallow.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes," he answered, breathily, "Take your clothes off, Laura."

"Alright." He listened to the sheets rustling again, as first she sat up and pulled his shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor, then lay down and wriggled out of her panties. "What do you want me to do?"

"Touch your breast, Laura, as I would. Feel me cupping it, kneading it, as I lower my head and draw your nipple into my mouth. And talk to me," he gasped in harmony with her.

"My lips are caressing the skin beneath your ear, my tongue tastes you, then I blow against your wet skin as my hand moves…"


	24. Chapter 24: Recovery

Chapter 24: Recovery

 _Three weeks later – May 20, 1986_

Laura stood in front of the safe in Virgil Denks's bedroom, muttering a string of expletives beneath her breath.

She hated this. She hated everything about this. Countless times over the years, Remington had schooled her in the art of cracking a safe and it had simply never become a skill she was able to use with practiced ease. Her fingers weren't as sensitive as his or her ear as fine tuned… and her patience wasn't as honed as his own.

"It's like a seduction, Laura," he'd told her on one such evening when she'd grown testy, "Undemanding yet deliberate, subtlety with a bit of finesse." He'd caught her attention with the descriptor and as she was pondering the intricacies of what he'd meant, he'd eased in and lowered her back to lay on the couch, shifting until he partly reclined over her. "I'd be happy to demonstrate," he'd murmured, lowering his head to caress her lips with his.

She missed him. She missed her partner. She'd always enjoyed these little B&E's of theirs. True, they were demanding, requiring every potential contingency planned for. But there was that underlying adrenaline, the easy unspoken communication from the slant of an eye to indicate potential trouble to a lift of a brow in triumph when the job was accomplished… the way their skills, their thoughts, even their alertness, complemented each other. They were the perfect team.

Even if a part of her had resented it for years.

Murphy had been a great partner, in a very different way, content to let her run the show, rarely opposing her and even on the occasions when he did, backing down when she held her ground. He was professional, conservative, precise, cautious, analytical, by the book – her. He was her. At least the her she'd decided was acceptable, the her she'd vowed to be.

Remington simply hadn't… been a part of her plan. The mythical boss suddenly turned flesh and blood, interloping on cases, stealing the limelight, given credit for _her_ – and later their – accomplishments. But his arrival had also heralded taking the Agency to a whole new level… a level that she'd always secretly craved. While the Agency still took on the ordinary and mundane cases, their schedule was packed with high profile cases that often demanded all their skills, a good deal of daring, the willingness to put their necks on the line, tons of adrenaline pumping capers… and the travel, one couldn't discount the—

Her eyes widened and one side of her mouth lifted in a self-satisfied smile when a tug on the handle released the latch on the safe. As they saying went, 'the third time's the charm'…

Even if it took her seven attempts to accomplish it, she noted ruefully.

Sticking the penlight between her lips, she reached inside for three velvet cases stored amongst paperwork and several stacks of strapped cash.

She shivered when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Automatically, she turned off the penlight and listened to the house around her. _Is someone here?_

Ten seconds passed, then twenty… then thirty, and the house remained silent around her. Still, those hairs of warning remained standing at attention and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Yet another reason why she missed her partner. No one's instincts were better than his when it came to watching their flanks. Those years spent on the streets and his prior profession had honed his instincts until they were as sharp as a razor's edge. Not that her own instincts were all that shabby. His were just… better.

Clicking back on the light, she shined it around the room while again keenly listening for anything that sounded out of place. Nothing. With a quiet puff of agitation, she removed the cases from the safe and carefully inspected their contents. The pieces were identical to the pictures supplied by Marney Denks. Reaching into her backpack, she extracted three jeweler's boxes identical to those she'd removed from the safe which held paste replicas she'd commissioned through one of Remington's contacts. Opening the case holding the necklace she examined the piece at length.

This case hadn't been setting well with her for days now. For three weeks she'd staked out Virgil Denks's house. Three weeks and not only had there been no sign of Denks's interior designer/lover, but from what she could ascertain, it seemed the man lived a fairly solitary and predictable life. Each evening he arrived home between seven-fifteen and seven-thirty. No guests ever came by and the lights in the house went out at eleven each night, without fail. The only exception to this routine came on Tuesday evenings when he'd arrive home at his normal time, go inside then reemerge fifteen minutes later in a polyester shirt, jeans and carrying a bowling bag.

She'd followed him last week, wondering if perhaps the entire scene was a ruse. Had he suspected his wife had hired a PI to follow him? If so, was the bowling get-up merely to throw whoever might be watching off his scent, allowing him to meet with his lover for an assignation? But the man had driven directly to LA Lanes. Following him surreptitiously inside, she'd taken a seat in the snack bar, and while dining on a burger, fries and glass of ice tea, had watched for the better part of two hours as he'd bowled. After the games were over, he'd driven directly back to his house and thirty minutes after his arrival home, all the lights in the house had been extinguished.

She fingered the necklace, then with a shake of her head, dropped the cases with the paste replicas back into her backpack, returned the original pieces to the safe, and after closing it, carefully positioned the painting concealing the safe back on the wall.

Minutes later, she slipped out of the window through which she'd entered the house and jogged into the inky darkness, making her way through the wooded, rocky terrain and up the hill towards where she'd stowed the Rabbit. Tossing her backpack on the passenger seat, she sank down behind the steering wheel, started the car and drove away.

* * *

Remington snatched up the phone on his bedside table on the first ring. Showered and shave in preparation of the day ahead, he wore a khaki's and a short-sleeved black polo.

"Steele, here."

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," Laura greeted.

"All went well, I take it?"

"No. No, it didn't," she replied on a sigh. Sitting down on the side of his bed, he dragged an anxious hand through his hair.

"What happened, Laura?" he asked, concern threading his voice.

"I don't know. Instinct, I guess. There I was, in the house, safe cracked, the jewelry in hand and I just couldn't shake the feeling something was…" she shook her head "…off. Just off."

"Those little hairs on the back of your neck, hmmm?" She laughed softly. He knew her too well.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I just can't get past the fact that nothing tracks." She held up a hand dropped it then continued in an exasperated tone. "Three weeks of surveillance. No visitors at his home. The only time he's gone out has been for bowling on Tuesday evening. The man's social life is less active than Mildred's for God's sake!"

"So, what are you going to do?"

"What else can I do? I can't keep working the case," she answered, reasonably. "Invoice for the hours, refund any excess from her deposit, give the client a referral to another Agency and end our involvement." She sighed again.

"What is it, Laura?" he pressed.

"I can't let go of the feeling that I was being watched tonight." His concern, momentarily assuaged, was elevated again.

"What do you mean, watched?" he asked in a clipped tone. Her brow knitted together in a frown.

"Just what I said: I had a feeling I was being watched," she snapped, then grimaced in remorse for aiming her frustration towards her hapless partner. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "This whole thing just has me… out of sorts. No one was there. It was nothing more than a feeling."

"And I regard your instincts as highly as I do my own," he answered, unappeased, as he paced as much of the room as the phone cord would allow. "Did you do a background check on the wife?"

"Need I remind you the wife is our client, Mr. Steele?" she asked drily.

" _The Lady in the Lake,"_ he quickly replied. "Robert Montgomery, Audrey Totter, Lloyd Nolan, MGM, 1946. Totter plays a secretary who hires Phillip Marlowe to find the missing wife of her boss, _despite_ the fact Totter, herself, had cause for wanting the wife gone."

"Your point?" she asked, briskly.

"The point, Laura, is things aren't always as they seem… as we well know from experience," he reminded her. "Would we ever have predicted Reuben Saltzman to be a criminal mastermind, capable of not only of being complicit in the robbery of the diamond exchange but aiding in framing me for the theft?" Her brow furrowed again.

"Alright," she answered slowly. "I'll have Mildred run a full background in the morning before my meeting with Denks."

"Good. Is everything still on as planned for tomorrow?" he inquired hesitantly.

The frown disappeared to be replaced with a smile. With Memorial Day weekend arriving on Friday, and only one case and security installation outstanding, she'd decided to close the office for a week. By this time the following the evening, she'd be on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic on her way to London. Since announcing her intentions a week ago, he fretted any number of times that something would come up leading her to cancel those plans.

"It is," she confirmed. "I meet with Denks tomorrow morning at nine. Fred's picking me up at the office at noon. I'll do the inspection on the security installation at Quik Kash on my way to LAX, then it's wheels up at three-thirty."

"You're certain you're comfortable staying here?" It was yet another issue he'd worried about on more than one occasion previously. "We could stay at the St. John or—" For a split second she considered taking him up on the offer, then shook her head adamantly. If things between she and Remington worked out, then she and Daniel would have to forge some form of a truce between them.

"There's no need," she interrupted. "I'm sure Daniel and I can manage to get along for a few days and there's no sense in spending money that's better saved. So what's on your agenda for the day?" she inquired, changing the topic.

"Interviews of potential house parents for Haven House this afternoon, but first I've an idea of a place or two that might be agreeable to offering residents employ. The owners showed some kindness towards me all those years ago, and it's my understanding they're still about."

"How much longer until Haven House is ready for occupation?"

"Two months, at least. The list of repairs needed is substantial and seems to be growing each day. Just today a section of the ceiling in the restaurant came down. Had the contractor not called to me… well, suffice it to say, you may well have been spending your time here at the hospital."

"Maybe while I'm there, I can lend a hand," she suggested.

"While on holiday?" he asked, aghast. "Wouldn't hear of it. It's so rare for you to take time off as it is that I was thinking perhaps we'd take a few days in Paris? Late spring though it may be, it's still beautiful at this time of the year. Imagine taking in the sites by day, fine dinners, dancing and long… romantic… strolls along the Seine in the evenings."

"Next time, maybe," she gently refused. "I want to be able to picture what you're doing when I'm not there, Remington." He stilled, positively gobsmacked by the admission. As warmth enveloped him, he cleared his throat.

"In that case, make sure you pack clothing you don't mind getting dirty," he acquiesced. "And speaking of being able to envision one another… What are you wearing, Laura…"


	25. Chapter 25: Haven House

Chapter 25: Haven House

Remington's first stop of the day was The Bijou, the old single screen movie theater in Brixton where he'd taken shelter on many a winter night as a boy. The owner and his wife, Edward and Mary Chapman had been kind people with a brood of six of their own to care for. The building in which the theater was housed provided not only the family's sole source of income, but the modest two-bedroom apartment above acted as their home, as well. The family of eight had hovered on the edge of poverty, yet the Chapman's had still found in their hearts to provide him with a simple meal and a place to sleep when he'd prevailed upon them – which he did only when most desperate, fearing that one day he'd discover he'd asked one time too many. The only thing they'd ever requested in return was that he give the old theater a good sweeping when the last moviegoer of the evening departed.

In the two decades since Daniel had pulled him off the street, he'd returned to the old theater a handful of times, as much to see how the couple was faring as to indulge in a bit of nostalgia, for it was in this theater that he'd first discovered immersing himself in a film was an excellent way to forget, at least for a few hours, the challenges that awaited him when the movie ended. Standing outside the theater now, he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. _The Birds, The Manchurian Candidate, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, My Fair Lady, Charade, Marnie –_ each of them he'd seen here, within only a year or two of their original release. But it was the 'oldies but good ones' Mr. Chapman would show from time-to-time that had forever captured his devotion: _Rear Window, North by Northwest, The African Queen, Roman Holiday, The Big Heat…_ And yes, it was here that he'd first seen _Casablanca_ , a movie Mr. Chapman made certain to show once a year, as it was his wife's favorite.

With a shake of his head, and a long exhale, Remington depressed the doorbell next to the doorway which led upstairs to the family's residence. When it went unanswered he consulted his watch. Ten o'clock. A perfectly acceptable time to call upon someone. He pressed the bell again, and this time was rewarded when a sandpapery voice yelled from the other side…

"I'm comin', I'm comin'."

The door swung open, and a tall man, thin as a scarecrow, with a white shock of hair and white whiskers stood in the frame.

"Well, bugger me," the man rasped in surprise, "It can't be, but be damned if it ain't!" Taking the final step down to street level the elderly man wrapped Remington in an embrace. "It's been a long time, Mick." Remington exchange the hug, then stepped back when the man released him.

"Little more than five years, I'd say," he agreed. "You're looking well. And Mrs. Chapman?" The other man's face fell.

"Lost her six months back to cancer, I'm afraid." Regaining his composure he indicated the door. "Come in, come in. I'll make us a spot of tea while we catch up." Remington followed him inside, then up the stairwell to the apartment as Mr. Chapman continued to speak. "My Mary took notice of you last fall, what with your picture on the news and the papers as it was. She was bloody well proud of you, my boy, discovering the vagabond that used to appear on our doorstep from time-to-time had gone on to do so well for himself. A light wind could have blown her straight over, having seen that name of yours…" The man looked over his shoulder at Remington. "What was it again?"

"Remington Steele," he grinned.

"What a name! Well, my Mary went on and on about that, let me tell you, wondering why it is you were running about calling yourself Mick when you'd such a distinguished name as that. I said to her, 'Now, Mary, the lad was already a target for being Irish born, and that bulls-eye on his back would have been twice as large should some of those delinquents have found out he'd been hung with a name straight out of the Kensington phone directory.' Of course, my Mary had to argue the point, saying…"

Remington's smile widened as Mr. Chapman continued on. He might have to bring Laura around for a visit with the elderly man, he mulled, because if she believed _he_ spoke to excess at times, well, Mr. Chapman's loquacious nature put his own to shame.

* * *

By the time the noon hour rolled around, Remington had secured two jobs for Haven House's future residents. Mr. Chapman would have a day position opening up in the next couple of months as the lass currently running the ticket booth and snack bar was with child and had let Mr. Chapman know that after the baby was born her working days were done. A stop round a small grocery store where he used to stock shelves every now and again in exchange for a few pieces of old fruit to stave off the hunger had netted a promise that the shop would take on an evening stock boy once Haven House was up and running.

His afternoon had not been nearly as fruitful. Six interviews had yielded no potential candidates in his eyes, although he'd bring the applicants's dossiers and the notes he'd scribbled to the Earl's with him the Friday afternoon. In the end, it wasn't his call who would… or would not, as the case might be… be offered the position. But, if asked, he certainly had some very firm beliefs of what the qualified applicant should bring to the table. No matter how long a child had been on these streets – a day, a week or years – something had brought them there and someone with a heavy hand or harsh words would only send them on their way again. He, of all people, would know what was needed to garner the trust of these kids and not an applicant amongst the half dozen interviewed had what it would take.

The day had concluded on an upward note, however, as he'd made a stop on Bond Street on the way back to Daniel's in order to pick up something very special.

Sitting on the terrace overlooking the expansive back garden at Daniel's home, a couple of fingers of scotch on the rocks in a tumbler at hand, Remington slowly opened the hinged jeweler's case.

Two days after arriving in London, he'd commissioned the world-renowned jeweler, Harry Winston, to design an engagement ring for Laura. Since Christmas last, he'd been doodling with the design of the ring, trying to determine what she would consider the perfect ring. He'd pondered the idea of a ruby as the center stone, a nod to the dress she'd worn the first time they'd danced with one another... and had fought with each other, he recalled now with a smile, but he'd quickly discarded the idea. He'd looked into acquiring Royal Lavulite, in honor of the stone that had brought them together, but cast that idea aside as well. Squawk all she wished about women's liberation and rejecting archaic gender roles, at her heart she was a woman who appreciated tradition.

A diamond it was to be, then.

Next came the question of cut, for the choices were many. For weeks he'd chewed upon the thought, eliminating one after another. The easiest to dismiss was the heart shaped, for she was far too refined a woman to wear something so gauche. Round and oval were too simplistic. The sharp point of the pear and marquise cuts might prove a hindrance at work, inspiring her not to wear it during the work day and for _him_ that wasn't an option. The princess, Asscher and emerald cut were far too trendy. Soon, only the cushion and radiant cuts remained. In the end there were two facets of the cushion cut that had seen it triumph: the lengthy history of the cut when compared to that of the radiant, once more speaking to tradition, and, above all, the cut's superior fire.

A fire that very much reminded him of her.

The carat and a half center stone was chosen with Laura's practical nature and slender fingers in mind. His lone requirement had been that the diamond, as well as the half moon baguettes flanking either side, be absolutely flawless.

He held the ring up to inspect it in the waning light. Sheer perfection, he estimated, and he'd paid dearly for it, enough so that if she ever discovered how much, she'd likely blister his ears for weeks over his spendthrift ways. But she was worth every penny… and so much more

Now it was a matter of easing her towards the idea of holy matrimony, a complicated task, to be certain, on the best of days, but in light of his rejection of her proposal at LAX made all the more so. It would take a great deal of patience, of finesse, to convince her-

"There you are, Harry." Daniel's greeting drew Remington from his thoughts and instinctively he snapped shut the ring box and shoved it into his pocket.

"Daniel!" he returned the greeting far too effusively, meriting the lift of a single brow by Daniel, "Been back a half hour or so. Thought a bit of fresh air was in order after a day spent amongst the saw dust. Why I ever agreed to take on this project is beyond me at the moment." Daniel merely nodded, then, sipping at his own scotch, sat down across from Remington.

"So, you're really going to do it then, are you?" Daniel inquired, neither feigning he hadn't seen the ring nor mincing words about it. Still, Remington did his best to side-step.

"Finish the project with the Earl? I gave the man my word and I've every intention of following through no matter the challenges." He flashed Daniel a quick smile, then prepared to stand. "If you'll—"

"Funny, I never saw you as the marrying kind," Daniel noted, refusing to play along as he swirled his drink while regarding it intently. "In fact, I seem to recall you once fiercely vowed never to find yourself in shackles." With a pained look, Remington sat back down.

"Yes," he drew out the word, "And I meant it. But then I met Laura and... things changed. Believe me, Daniel, I didn't plan on it."

"I must say, I've never understood your attraction to Linda." Remington laughed low in his throat.

"Mmmm, yes, you've certainly made that clear enough over the years," he noted, sarcasm threading through his words.

"Why limit yourself to one when there are so many to be had?" Daniel questioned. Remington looked his mentor in the eyes as raised himself from his chair.

"Because there's only one that I want," he answered with a lift of his brows. Stopping beside Daniel on the way into the house, he laid his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Do me a favor, old man, and keep this under your hat. I'll need time to ease Laura around to the idea." With that Remington walked towards the French doors leading inside, the remainder of his tumbler of scotch in hand.

"Oh, Harry," Daniel called after him. Come to a standstill, Remington turned to look at his mentor. "I'm hosting a poker game this evening if you'd like to sit in." Remington pursed his lips in thought. It could be precisely the distraction he needed.

"What time?" he questioned.

"Ten o'clock."

"I'll be there. I'll see you at dinner, Daniel."

With that, he disappeared inside, thinking to review his notes for the changes he'd recommended in the restaurant of Haven House.


	26. Chapter 26: Unveiling

Chapter 26: Unveiling

"Good morning, Mildred," Laura greeted cheerfully, as she walked through the doors of Remington Steele Investigations at eight Wednesday morning. Mildred planted her elbow on her desk and rested her chin in her palm.

"Someone's in a good mood this morning. Does that have anything to do with a certain someone?" Laura's smiled widened.

"Could be," she replied. "Ready to head to your sister's for the week?"

"Oh, I can't go for the week. The Dragon Lady's play the Bowl Busters tomorrow night. The ladies would have my head if I missed it. But on Friday, I'm outta here. Bernard's going to be home for the long weekend. He graduates next weekend, you know." Laura's brows lifted in surprise.

"You never said anything!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Steele and I will have to pick him up a graduation present while I'm in London."

"Aw, you don't have to do that," Mildred waved her off. "I'm just so proud. My little Bernie graduating and preparing to start his Masters."

"I know we don't _have_ to. I want to and I'm sure Mr. Steele will feel the same. I think he has a soft spot where Bernard is concerned," she shared as she picked up the mail and sorted through the stack. Nothing that couldn't wait until she came home. "Mildred, I want you to run a quick background check on our client. Keep it simple. Driver's license, criminal history, financials." Mildred straightened in her chair.

"We never run backgrounds on our clients. What's up?" Laura lifted her hand and dropped it.

"Just a feeling something's off, nothing more. Let's see what you dig up, if anything, and we'll go from there. But make it fast. We're expecting her within the hour." Mildred swung her chair around to face her computer.

"I'm on it. Give me thirty. If there's any dirt, Krebs will find it."

Twenty-eight minutes later, Mildred knocked on Laura's open office door. It only took a glance at the investigator-in-training's face to know she'd found something. Leaning back in her chair, she indicated with a hand for Mildred to have a seat.

"What did you find?"

"Well, whoever our client is, she's not Marney Denks, that's for sure." Mildred handed Laura a print out of Marney Denks's driver's license. "The real Marney Denks died in a car accident right before Christmas last year," she continued, handing Laura a copy of the obituary, "Leaving behind her husband, Virgil Denks and no other relatives to speak of." Laura propped her feet on the corner of her desk, and fingered her throat.

"So I see," she answered, thoughtfully.

"What's going on here, Miss Holt?" Mildred worried. Laura lifted a shoulder and dropped it.

"I have no idea. If she's a con using the Agency to steal those jewels, it's a brilliant strategy, certainly not something I've ever thought might happen. But, I suspect there's more to it than that and we're going to find out." Dropping her feet to the ground, she opened her drawer and removed her purse. Extracting her car keys from it, she tossed them to Mildred. "Wait a few minutes after she arrives, then call me on the intercom. Remind me that with us closing for a week you need to go to the post office."

"The post office?" Mildred asked, a baffled look upon her face.

"The post office," Laura confirmed with a emphatic nod of her head. "When Denks leaves I want you to tail her. I'll have Fred pick me up in the limo. Call me when she arrives at her destination. At the very least, we may find out where she lives. In the meantime," she tapped the jeweler's boxes on her desk with her index finger, "Once Ms. Denks pays the balance of her bill, she'll receive the jewels she hired us to retrieve."

"The balance of—" Mildred's eyes widened, "Wait a minute, you're giving her the jewels?!" Mildred's voice raised an octave she was so shocked.

"These," she tapped the boxes again, "Are the paste replicas. I put the originals back in the safe when I suspected something was up." A wide smile lit her face, and was reflected on Mildred's.

"I gotta hand it to you, Miss Holt, you're one sharp cookie," she praised. "Now what balance?"

"The Remington Steele Agency charges our premium rates when someone tries to put one over on us, not only wasting our time, but placing the Agency's reputation, not to mention ourselves, at risk," Laura advised, voice grown hard. "Double our normal hourly rate, and then hit her with every expense you can think of: Film for the camera, gas to and from Denks's home, cost plus on the replicas." She leaned back in her chair. "I think the least 'Mrs. Denks' can do is cover the Agency bills while we're closed. Think you can do that in the next…" she consulted her wristwatch "…ten minutes or so?"

"It's a snap," Mildred replied, snapping her fingers in emphasis as she stood up. "Just a matter of changing the hourly rate then adding a few lines for expenses. I'll have it to you before she arrives."

"Thanks, Mildred." Her brow furrowed as a thought came to mind. "And Mildred, no heroics. You're to follow her, then call me."

"You got it," Mildred agreed. "Be back in five."

Laura watched Mildred depart her office, closing the door behind her. Leaning back in her chair and propping her feet up on the corner of the desk again, she tapped steepled hands together.

She didn't like the fact someone had pulled a fast one on her, not at all, and couldn't help but wonder if, with the absence of her partner, she'd lost some of the edge that had contributed to the Agency's success. As that concern paraded about in the recesses of her mind, she reached for her phone and tapped a number out on the keypad.

"Fred, change of plans. How fast can you be at the Agency?"

* * *

Laura was furious – _beyond_ furious – as she shoved her way through the cheap door of the diner downtown. She'd extended the meeting with 'Marney Denks' long enough to assure Mildred would be in place and ready to tail the woman when she left the office. In the meantime, she'd presented Denks with the bill. The woman had never batted an eye when presented with her bill, all too eager to get her hands on the jeweler's boxes sitting on Laura's desk. She'd never asked whether or not Laura had caught 'her husband' in a compromising position, instead coolly handing over a little more than thirty-four-hundred dollars in cash before sweeping out the door with the 'jewels' in hand.

The whole meeting had only underscored what she now saw as her own gullibility. It was out of habit, and nothing more, that she'd tossed the micro-recorder into her purse before leaving the Agency, securing the doors behind her.

As she looked around the retro diner, she reached into her purse and depressed the record button, then spying her prey, stalked across the room, brushing off the hostess who offered to seat her. Instead, dropping her purse on the table, she slipped, uninvited, into the booth next to 'Marney Denks', essentially blocking the woman's lone escape route should she choose to bolt.

It was only her rigid self-control that kept her from lunging across the table and putting her hands around the fat neck of 'Mrs. Denks's dining companion. Instead, in a moment of peevishness, she reached across the table, snatched the burning cigar out of Norman Keyes's hand, and ground it out in the middle of the stack of pancakes sitting before him.

"Hey!" he protested. "You owe me breakfast and a cigar."

"Consider it my tip for a job well done," she shot back. "Why am I not surprised you're behind this, Keyes?" Leaning back, he slung an arm over the back of the booth, earning a dirty look from the patron behind him when he knocked her in the back of the head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Holt," he claimed, "I'm just here, enjoying breakfast with a friend." Raising a hand, he waved at the waitress, as Laura turned to Keyes's companion who'd remained silent until now.

"You and Norman know each other?" Marney inquired, with wide-eyed innocence. Laura's eyes narrowed on her.

"Another order of hot cakes," Keyes instructed the waitress as he shoved his plate towards her. "These have something in them." The waitress him a queer look, but took the plate away with her.

"Old friends," Laura deadpanned in answer to Denks's question. "I think the more interesting question is how do _you_ know him?"

"We met here Saturday, actually," Denks replied. "The diner was crowded and he offered to share his table with me. He's such a kind man, taking time out of his busy schedule to show a stranger from out of town around the city."

"Nice try," Laura drawled, reaching for her purse. Pulling a piece of paper out of her purse, she slapped it on the table. "I have no idea who you are, _Mrs. Denks_ , but I know who you're not. So cut the act." She turned a pair of hard eyes on Keyes. "What game are you playing, Keyes?" she demanded to know. His cackle surrounded them.

"Just enjoying breakfast with a friend," he repeated, a smug smile on his face.

"Let me guess. You have your _friend_ hire me to recover a family heirloom from the husband she is about to divorce, providing her with all the documentation she might need to prove her ownership," she speculated. "I hand over the jewels to her and she disappears into thin air. You, in turn, 'recover' the jewels, and collect the recovery fee while bolstering your somewhat tarnished reputation." She easily read the slight smirk on his lips and gave her head a slow shake. "No, that's not it." Her mind sorted through all the possible variations. She paled slightly when the full scope of what he had planned came into focus. "You have a buyer."

"Why settle for pennies on the dollar when you can have it all?" he confirmed with a maniacal grin.

"And I suppose Vigilance is the actual insurer," she surmised.

"They terminated my services after that stunt you pulled, Holt," he fumed.

"That I pulled?!" she returned, appalled. "You're the one who tried to have Mr. Steele deported in a snit that you'd have to report to him. You're the one who barged into _our_ offices, making threats and lewd comments. You're the one who put his hands on _me._ What exactly is it that _'I pulled'_?"

"You made it personal," Keyes accused, pointing a finger at her face. "Nalbourne never needed to be brought into any of it. It was between me and Steele." Stunned by how his demented little mind reordered history at his convenience, she leaned fully against the back of the booth, crossed her arms, and slowly shook her head in disbelief.

"So what was your plan? To frame me for the theft of the jewels?"

"Steele has a soft spot for you," he answered by way of explanation. She threw up her hands.

"It would have never worked!" she protested. "I have proof that we were hired to retrieve goods that were being withheld from the rightful owner, payment for services rendered—"

"Do you?" he challenged. Her skin crawled as she wondered what else it was she might have missed.

"No one will ever believe you," she retorted. "My reputation, the Agency's reputation, stands for itself."

"A desperate woman has been known to do worse," Keyes provoked. As intended, she took umbrage at the slight, her back straightening and her eyes shooting darts in his direction.

"I'm not a _desperate woman_ ," she spit the words out with distaste.

"Woman with a boss who has a questionable past, a boss that has recently been investigated for being in the country illegally then disappears right afterwards. Maybe she believes her job security is at risk and decides to take matters in her own hands, create a little nest egg for herself," he proposed, then laughed long and loud.

"A fantasy, and again, not only will no one ever believe it, but you have _no_ evidence other than my own case files that I was involved in any of this." Reaching for her purse, she prepared to leave, her hand stalling over it at his next words.

"As they say, 'a picture's worth a thousand words,'" Keyes bragged with smirk. "The photos of your little B&E last night are being developed as we speak." To her credit, she never so much as let him see her blink. Standing she reached into her purse and removed the micro-recorder.

"And a confession is worth far more," she informed him, taking pleasure in the way his face reddened. Dropping the recorder back in her purse, she slid the strap over her shoulder then pressed flattened palms on the table, leaning in until she was nearly nose-to-nose with the man. "You, Mr. Keyes are a twisted little man. Good luck selling those jewels. Your 'friend' was given paste replicas." As he fumed she turned to Denks. "As for you, I have no idea who you are, but I will find out." Grabbing a napkin off the table, she picked up the woman's coffee cup then wrinkled her nose at the contents. "I prefer my coffee black." With a smile, her attention returned to Keyes and she emptied the contents in his lap then shoved the empty cup into her purse. "The coffee's on you."

As he sputtered with fury, she turned on her heel and strode towards the door of the diner, head held high.

"I'll get you for this, Holt, if it's the last thing I do," he yelled at her departing back. "I used to think you were the brains in this operation. Steele would have figured it out long ago!"

She held her composure until she slumped down into the backseat of the limo.

"The office, Fred," she directed, in a dull voice.

As the limo pulled away from the curb, she couldn't help but wonder if Keyes was right.

* * *

Laura's eyes blinked open when the flight attendant laid a soft hand on her arm.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," the attendant advised.

"Thank you," she replied, graciously.

When the attendant departed, she sat up and stretched. She'd managed a little over four hours of sleep, having spent the first six-and-a-half hours of the flight filleting herself. A check of personal and business accounts showed nothing amiss, so unlike with Descoine no mysterious deposits had appeared to secure the net Keyes had intended to cast around her. It was Denks's file, however, that had left her resting her head in her hands. The registration, insurance paperwork and the will she'd been provided were no longer part of the file and she had no idea when they had disappeared.

Framed, surveilled, their office breached and she'd missed it all.

Had Keyes been that slick or had she been careless… unobservant… obtuse…

The list of self-deprecating words she'd levied upon herself had been considerable.

Now, her unhappiness with herself was overshadowed, at least temporarily, by the anticipation of seeing Remington for the first time in weeks. Removing her compact from her purse, she dabbed a little powder on her face, and slicked on a layer of lipstick over her lips. She patted back the stray hairs that had come loose from her French braid, and decided it would have to suffice.

She was inexplicably shaky as she walked through the jetway towards the terminal gate. Was it because she was roused at what was her three A.M. after too little sleep? Was it because of the day's discoveries? Or was it because she needed to see Remington's eyes, to see that the warmth, the pride, the tenderness… and yes, even the need… was still in their blue depths? She couldn't say for sure if was any one thing or all the things combined.

When she stepped out of the jetway into the terminal, there he was, hair slightly shorter than the last time she'd seen him, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other raised to his mouth as he nibbled at his thumbnail, a testament to his own nerves.

His eyes landed on her and there was that look she needed to see.

He edged his way through the throngs waiting for their parties, as she eased around the people disembarking in front of her.

His hand reached for her waist when she neared. Without hesitation, she dropped her overnight bag at her feet and stepped into his waiting embrace…


	27. Chapter 27: Eye Opener

Chapter 27: Eye Opener

They waited until they reached the privacy of the car for a proper hello, at which time Remington turned in his seat, and cupped the back of Laura's neck.

"Come here, Laura."

He'd said those three words in that way enough over the years, that she now realized how much she'd missed hearing them the last month. She hadn't needed a reminder of how much she'd missed his presence, moments like these. The feel of his fingers caressing her neck, his thumb stroking his cheek, his flattened palm on her back, his lips moving over hers, teasing them as his rich, woodsy scent surrounded her… London or not, the warmth, familiarity and contentment of all those things coalesced into a single feeling: she was home.

A disturbing thought, for a woman determined to stand on her own two feet such as her, one to add to the acknowledgement that the two of them were far better as a team than she was an investigator on her own.

She filed these revelations away to dissect on another day. For now, she was here, he was here and she wanted to live in the moment.

Forty minutes later, Laura paused in their conversation to note…

"'I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore,' or in this case, London." He turned his head and grinned at her before returning his attention to the road.

"Honestly, that reference is nearly insulting. _The Wizard of Oz._ Judy Garland, Frank Morgan, Jack Haley, Bert Lahr, Ray Bolger, Warner Brothers, 1939," he automatically recited. Tugging at his ear he acknowledged, "But you are correct. Daniel's home isn't in London proper. When we met he had a modest flat in the city that he gave up some months after I'd come along, and we traveled from place to place as he… uh..." with a pained looked he finished "…furthered my education. It was nearly two years before he brought me here."

"Well, now I know where you learned your spendthrift ways from," she commented, drily. "Why throw away money renting an apartment in London when he already owned a home?"

"Not spendthrift, Laura. Cautious," he corrected. "In our early days together, he wasn't quite sure I wouldn't take off with anything of value I thought I might get a fast quid for." She raised her brows at him, curious. It was still rare he spoke so openly with her about his past.

"Would you have?"

"Without a moment's thought," he confirmed with a wide smile. "The only thing that kept me on that first year was the promise of a meal and a bed to sleep in. I couldn't be quite sure he wouldn't eventually attempt to extract a price for his… kindness. Had the opportunity presented itself for me to light out of there with a bit of blunt in my pocket…" He allowed her to finish the thought for herself.

"What made you finally trust him?" she asked quietly, laying a hand on his thigh. He shrugged a careless shoulder.

"Never once did I see him eyeing me in the way men prowling the streets had often done. All he ever asked of me was that I appreciate the effort he was putting into me and show a bit a respect, neither of which I did for some time," he laughed. "I'm still not sure why he put up with me as he did."

"For the same reason I did. We saw something in you that you didn't see in yourself." Thoroughly gobsmacked by the compliment, he lifted her hand and bussed the back of it. "Now, what is it you were saying about Bernerd?"

"I told Mildred we'd pick him up something for graduation while I was here."

"Have you anything particular in mind?" He waited for an oncoming car to pass then turned the steering wheel, guiding the car onto a paved road to the right.

"A nice leather attaché and a good quality pen and pencil set comes to mind."

"Easily enough done. I know just the place," he assured.

"I thought you might," she answered drily.

"Ah, back to my spendthrift ways, then, are we?" She snorted quietly and smirked at him.

"If the credit card statements fit…"

Her words trailed off when the car came to a stop before an ornate wrought iron fence securing the opening of a six foot high ivy covered wall that expanded in either direction as far as the eye could see before disappearing in groves of trees. A touch of the button by Remington on a remote clipped to the visor saw the gates swinging open.

"It's no wonder I can't get it through your head that crime doesn't pay," she muttered beneath her breath. He chuckled low in his throat.

"Oh, I don't think Daniel's gambits paid for this house. The villa in France, yes, certainly, but despite his best efforts Daniel's bigger schemes tend to go awry," he shared. "Daniel would have been fifty, perhaps fifty-one when first he brought me here. Tildy and Milton have made reference enough, over the years, of Daniel being a handful when he was a teen, and they've spent nearly their entire lives here." Her eyes left the view of verdant lawns and immaculate landscaping long enough to consider him.

"Tildy and Milton?" His eyes flickered in her direction then back to the driveway.

"Matilda, or Tilly to most, runs the household while these days Milton acts as a gentleman's servant," he supplied. "No, I've a feeling this was Daniel's childhood home. In fact, if the letters from Eton alumni addressed to him are any indication, he was raised to be a well-heeled gentleman."

"I don't get it. If he had every advantage," she swept her hand across the horizon, where the visage of the house could now be seen, "Why choose the life that he did?"

"I've no idea," he admitted as he parked the car in front of the house. "The thrill of it? The daring? But selfishly, thank God that he did or who knows what would have come of me." She said nothing in answer to that. Merely lay a soft hand on his shoulder, before he swung open his car door and stepped out. Rounding the car, he opened the door on her side and offered a hand out.

"It's a beautiful home," she admired. "Historic?"

"Mmmm. Grade two," he confirmed. "It's been modernized, but most of the historic features remain."

The expansive brick Tudor with its many peaks and chimneys was trimmed in heavy wood around door and window casements and bedecked with many windows to guarantee sunlight would stream into the home throughout the day. The home was immaculately landscaped and in the expanse of grass in the center of the circular drive, a fountain bubbled.

"Are you sure Daniel won't mind? If this is his getaway, I doubt he wants its location revealed to anyone," she pointed out. He stooped down slightly to look at her eye-level.

"You're not just 'anyone,' Laura," he reminded her. "If nothing else, Daniel knows you'd never do anything that would bring me harm." He held out a hand towards the house. "Shall we?" She pointed a single finger at the rear of the car.

"My luggage?" He lay a hand on the small of her back and directed her around the car towards the front door.

"I haven't forgotten it, but Milton would be insulted if I were to imply him incapable." Her brow furrowed as she accompanied him.

"But from what you said, he must be—"

"And he is, yet still insists he be treated as though he isn't."

As they approached the door, it swung open. Her look of surprise wasn't lost on Remington, who bent down his head to speak next to her ear.

"The gate causes a bell to chime in the house." She gave a nod of understanding, imperceptible to anyone but him.

"Milton, if you'll see to Laura's bags," he greeted the older man, holding out the keys to the car, "They can go to my room."

"Yes, sir," Milton answered with a stoic nod. "Master Chalmers has stepped out and won't be back 'til late, but asked that your guest make herself at home."

"Thank you, Milton." Remington turned to Laura as Milton stepped outside and held out a crooked arm to her. "Would you care for the grand tour?"

"By all means." She slipped her arm through his, then turned to her right when he led her in that direction. "Why do I suspect Daniel's 'stepping out' isn't coincidental given my arrival?" She admired the ornate wainscoting and crown molding in the formal dining room.

"I suspect you're right, although not for the reason you believe." He led her into the reception room.

"Oh, and what is I believe, exactly?" she inquired, casually. "Is this—" she toed the carpet.

"Oriental? Of course," he confirmed, clasping his hands behind his back as he circled the room behind her. "You believe he's avoiding you."

"No matter our differences, I don't want him feeling uncomfortable in his own home," she reasoned. He leveled a bemused smile at her back.

"I assure you, Laura, he's only giving us a little bit of privacy." That response merited a wry laugh from her as he swung open a door and they traipsed into the library.

"Seems to me all he's done for three years is attempt to put space between us, so forgive me if I find that hard to believe." He tilted his head to the side and back again at her back, conceding the point.

"Yes, yes, that's true enough. But perhaps – and I mean _just perhaps_ – I hadn't been as firm with him as I could have been about where and _with whom_ I view my future."

"He has a remarkable collection," she commented as she fingered the titles of the books on the shelves. Then with a slant of her eyes towards him, asked coyly, "And now?"

"And now," he replied, as he closed in on her, "He may not understand my choices, but he respects them." At her snort of disbelief, he caught her between the bookshelves and his arms. Pursing his lips in a half smile, his eyes held hers as he waggled his head. "Do you know why that is?" Her lips quirked upwards in a half smile and her hands slid up his chest until the rested on his shoulders. She'd known it was only a matter of time until she found herself in such a position, given the way his eyes had stayed on her since they began the tour.

"Something tells me you're about to tell me," she answered, widening her eyes flirtatiously. He leaned his head down, allowed his lips to hover millimeters from hers.

"He wants me to be happy." Her eyes fell to his lips.

"And what makes you happy?"

"Do you have to ask?" His lips touched hers, only a tease, then he slipped away. "Don't worry, Laura. You didn't run Daniel off. You'll be crossing swords with him again before you know it. Shall we continue the tour?" He held out his hand towards the door.

"Of course." As she stepped in front of him and out the door, she ran her tongue around her mouth then smiled. He had seduction in mind, and she wasn't inclined to put the brakes on it.

They walked through the sunroom, peeked in at a den, strolled through the living room, then the large eat-in kitchen where, shockingly, Remington didn't dwell on his admiration of the size and state-of-the-art appliances. She inhaled in sharp appreciation when they stepped into the conservatory. Two walls were floor to ceiling glass allowing daylight to flood the room and the wide-plank hand hewn wood floors added an undeniable warmth to the room. But it was what stood in the place of honor in the room that captured her fancy: a Steinway and Son's Model D grand piano. She ran her fingers over the French polish finished rosewood casing, while admiring the inlaid leaves and carvings.

"I thought you might enjoy it." Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he shoved his hands in his pockets, enjoying watching her appreciation of the piano.

"An antique Steinway? It's… stunning. How old is it? Late eighteen-hundred's, I'd guess," she speculated.

"1870. I'm impressed."

"Playing condition?" He laughed softly as though the question was absurd.

"Daniel wouldn't have it any other way." She didn't bother to hide her surprise.

"Does he play?" He shook his head.

"Not a note. You can feel free to tickle the ivories anytime you wish." She smiled wide, thinking she'd take him up on that offer.

"Does this complete the tour?" He shook his head again, and pursed his lips as he pushed away from the wall. "No. We've a bit more to see. You'll find a door around the corner." She bent her head and peered around that corner.

"Alright," she drew out the word, something about his tone making her wonder what he was up to. She walked around the corner as he followed behind her, his hands folded behind his back again. Opening the door, she stepped through. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

She stood in the replica of an English pub replete with a dark, rich bar and stools, dart board, card and billiard tables. The shelves behind the bar were stocked with bottles of various spirits, and based on the pulls, three beers were on tap. But what captured her full attention was the wall of glass that looked out over an indoor swimming pool, sizeable enough that she could train for her triathlons with ease. The vaulted roof of the pool area was heavily beamed with skylights dotting it. Full walls surround the pool allowed for privacy, except from the pub, although the generous allotment of windows placed high on the walls still allowed the area to be flooded with sunlight.

She spun on a heel to look at him and he merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Daniel does enjoy certain luxuries," he offered as the only explanation.

"Obviously," she answered dryly.

Capturing her hand in his, he guided her through the door into the pool area and then outside where a pathway awaited. They toured the stables where a trio of mounts awaited, then the traditional grass tennis court before returning inside the house through the terrace where they took the back stairs up to the second floor.

"'Fraid there's nothing spectacular to be found on this floor," he announced. Just five bedrooms on the north side of the house, Daniel's on the south." He walked to the end of the hallway, then swung open the door. "And this is ours." She stepped into the enormous room, replete with king bed, dressers, and sitting area.

"My entire loft could fit in here," she observed.

"Mmmm. It's one of the two masters in the house. Have any idea what you'd like to do this afternoon? A ride? Tennis? A swim?"

"I'd like to unpack." She gave him a rueful look. "Then maybe a trip to town so I can buy what I need? I didn't pack expecting to be staying at a country club by its own rights." Under her puzzled watch he disappeared through a doorway then returned with a large white box festooned with a large red ribbon and bow.

"Then, perhaps this will suit your needs." She looked up at him, stunned pleasure in her eyes.

"What's this?" He returned her smile.

"Open it and find out."

Taking the box from him, she sat on the bed, balancing the box on her lap and while her eyes held his, gave a tentative tug on one end of the bow. With a final look at him, she dropped her eyes and finished untying the bow. Lifting the lid from the box, she couldn't help her pleased laugh. Inside the box were tennis whites, riding clothes, riding boots and tennis shoes. She suspected there was a swimsuit beneath the rest that met his exacting tastes. The idea of her Mr. Steele in riding clothes or a bathing suit held an undeniable, blood-warming appeal. Setting aside the box, she stepped to him and brushed her lips against his.

"Thank you," she told him softly, before turning to assess the items on the bed. "How about I unpack, then we go for a ride and follow it with a swim?"

"I'll go get changed," he answered by way of agreement.

"Where should I put my clothes?" she called to him as he disappeared through that doorway again.

"I believe you'll find sufficient space in here and the dresser is yours to do with as you please," he called back to her. "My clothes are stored in the bachelor chest." With a nod, she unzipped her suitcase, and in short order had hose, undergarments and lingerie tucked into drawers. She walked through that same open doorway to gather some hangers, her feet stuttering to a stop.

"You have got to be kidding me!" she exclaimed for the second time in less than a half hour as she eyed the pair of dressing rooms on either side of the hall.

"It occurs to me that you sound much like I did the first time Daniel brought me here." With a smile, he lifted a single brow at her, and added, "Although much less colorful."

"I don't even think _your_ wardrobe would take up a third of the space in here. Who would need this much room for _stuff?_ " Her tone suggested the idea of any such thing positively absurd. Then realizing he stood before her shirtless, his buff-colored riding breaches unbuttoned and unzipped, she decided, in an instant, his plans for a slow seduction could take a hike. "I know how I'd rather spend the afternoon…" Stepping to him, she dragged a splayed hand down his chest, over his abdomen, then flipped her hand over to caress him.

He sucked in a quick breath and moved out of the reach of her crafty hand. Yanking a shirt off a hanger, he grabbed his boots and bussed her on the side of her head as he passed.

"Anticipation, love, let it build. It'll be worth it. I'll wait for you downstairs." Frustrated, she watched his retreating back.

What had they been doing the last month if not let anticipation build?


	28. Chapter 28: Anticipation

Chapter 28: Anticipation

"I just realized you and I have never been riding together," Laura commented as they road side-by-side on a pair of Bays. "Unless you consider Acapulco, but I believe we argued more than we rode."

"Ah, _The Temptress_ wasn't it?" Remington smiled with a lift of his brow. She scowled in his direction. "Besides, if I remember correctly, the last time we rode, I'd plucked you from a torch carrying mob defying certain death in doing so." She rolled her eyes.

"They didn't wish to kill us, Mr. Steele. Detain us until after the seven-year statute expired, that's all," she reminded.

"Always with the details, Laura," he groused.

"You were very gallant," she appeased. "Not that I needed—"

"Rescuing," he finished for her, holding up a hand, as they left the path and journeyed into an open field. "Yes, yes, I know. Although you have to admit, the chivalrous knight riding to the rescue of his lady fair from the mad villagers has a great deal more romantic flair than 'He gave me a ride.'"

"Mr. Steele?"

"Yes, Miss Holt?"

"Ride," she suggested, then with a nudge of a foot and a click of a tongue sent her horse into a full gallop across the field.

A wide smile graced his face as he mimicked the move and raced after her.

* * *

Much to Laura's infinite irritation, and most certainly grating against her competitive nature, Remington beat her back to the stables by half a length. Even more exasperating, he promptly decreed 'to the victor goes the spoils,' and hauled her in for a _very_ thorough kiss that only served to further rouse her itchy libido.

Well, two could play that game, she decided when they returned to the house to change for their swim. Stripping down completely, she first braided her hair, watching as his eyes flickered to the mirror several times, then made a display of putting on the red bikini he'd bought for her.

His own suit did little to disguise his response… and neither did the gnawing of his thumbnail.

 _Good._

 _She's trying to turn the bloody tables on me_ , he recognized, then admitted to himself, _And doing a damned fine job of doing so_. It had been too long since he'd held her, made love to her and he was already on the edge. The two of them in the pool together, with her wearing _that?_

"Ready?" With her back still turned to him, she hooked her fingers beneath the elastic of her bikini bottoms, pretending to adjust them then wrapped a towel around her slim form for the trip downstairs.

What else could he say as he wrapped a towel around his own waist but…

"Lead the way."

* * *

Much to Laura's amusement, as soon as they'd arrived poolside, Remington had suggested they race. With a knowing smirk, she had agreed.

One two-lap race had become the best out of three, then the best of five, and finally, the best of seven. She was fairly certain he'd tossed a couple of those races her way, but in the end he'd handily won four to three.

"You know, I'm reminded of a conversation we had not long ago," she commented, facing him as he leaned his back against the edge of the pool while they caught their breaths.

"Which conversation was that?" he wondered, sweeping his wet hair back.

* * *

" _ **With a set routine and some self-discipline you should be able to run in the next triathlon with me."**_

* * *

He laughed low in his throat and scratched at his head as though thinking.

"And didn't I say something along the lines that I get all the exercise I need in my pursuit of you? Hmmmm?" he challenged.

"Says the man who gets winded climbing the stairs to the loft," she harrumphed. Stroking her throat with her fingers she gave the matter some thought then a wide smile lit her face as she stepped to him and lay that hand against his chest. "You're a betting man, Mr. Steele." He eyed her suspiciously.

"That I am," he agreed.

"Then I bet," she drew the words out, while walking her fingers up his chest and giving him a mischievous look, "By New Years, I can best you in at least one out of three fencing bouts, and if I do, you have to train for _one_ triathlon with me." She cocked her head sideways as smirked at him. "Unless, of course, you're afraid." She tapped his nose with the tip of her finger. He gave her an affronted look.

"Remington Steele is afraid of no wager, no matter the size," he admonished, then pursed his lips, considering. "And should I win?" Her smile widened.

"Then I will fulfill your fondest wish…" she frowned, thinking better of such broad grounds for her Mr. Steele to allow his imagination to go wild, and amended, "As long as it's legal and doesn't cost me my life savings and then some. Is it a deal?" She held out her hand to him. But he had better ideas on how to seal the deal, drawing her into his arms for a slow kiss.

"Deal," he agreed, when their lips parted. His fingertips traced the silhouette of her face before he dipped his head down to leisurely caress her neck with his mouth. Her head fell back while one of her hands buried itself in his hair and the other wandered over upper chest, shoulder, down his arm and back again.

The sound of someone clearing their throat had Remington lifting his eyes and his lips stilling at the crook of her neck, even as Laura stiffened in his arms. Standing up, he kept her loosely clasped in his embrace.

"Daniel!" he greeted in surprise. "I thought you were gone for the evening." His eyes warned Daniel against any commentary on the position he found them in lest such comments embarrass Laura.

"Just stopped in to change for the evening," Daniel replied as Laura turned in the circle of Remington's arms to greet her host.

"Your home is lovely, Daniel," she complimented.

"I must say it's nice seeing someone enjoying the pool. I don't believe it's been put to use for more than a decade," he mulled. "Harry, Tilly asked I relay to you dinner will be served on the terrace within the hour." Automatically, Remington glanced at the wrist watch that was absent.

"Is the hour that late already?" he inquired. Daniel glanced at his own timepiece.

"A touch after seven-thirty," he provided, then with a formal nod addressed Laura. "I'm running behind myself. "Linda—" Remington felt Laura's inhale at the name and sent Daniel a glacial look. "Laura," he corrected, "Feel free to enjoy my home much as you would your own. I'm sure we'll have a chance to catch up tomorrow." Another nod followed. "Good evening."

"Have a good evening, Daniel," Remington called after his mentor.

Hoisting himself out of the pool and onto the side, he bent over and offered Laura a hand, hauling her out.

"We'll dress for dinner this evening," he informed her as he reached for her towel and handed it to her. She looked down at her bikini clad figure then gave him a bemused look.

"Yes, I would expect clothing to be a necessity." She wrapped her towel around herself as he wrapped his around his waist. A hand on her back guided her towards the door.

"Formally, Laura. Tux, gown, the works." She turned her head to frown at him.

"I didn't bring anything _formal_ with me," she told him, in a way that suggested he should know better.

"I imagine you'll find whatever it is you need in our room," he hinted. "I'll be changing in one of the guest rooms myself." That notion earned him another smirk on the day.

"Are you saying you don't trust me, Mr. Steele?" Stopping in front of the door to their room he bent down so they were eye-to-eye and raised a brow at her, thinking of her antics before the swim.

"Not a bit, Miss Holt." He dropped a kiss on her nose. "You remember how to get to the terrace?"

"Of course."

"Then join me there when you're ready."

With that, he walked to a room two doors down and disappeared inside.

* * *

In an unusual state for himself, Remington fretted over the details of the table as he waited for Laura to arrive. It had required a great deal of pleading on his part to convince Tilly to help him create this evening, miffed as she still was with him for his prolonged absence. When she'd at last relented, he'd gone into excruciating detail: Laura's dress and shoes laid out when he diverted her away from the room; table covered in white linen, a tasteful arrangement and candle gracing it; the torch lights lining the terrace dimly lit; a selection of music filtered through the speakers; and Dom on ice. He left the meal itself to Tilly's exacting detail.

Unlike at home in LA, he wouldn't have endless days and nights to ease Laura towards the idea of holy wedlock and certainly the phone conversations in between visits weren't conducive towards showing her they were meant to share their lives with one another. He frowned in thought. Perhaps had always been meant to share their lives with one another. First the Royal Lavulite drawing him to LA, then the inexplicable urge to give up his pursuit of the gems in favor of returning to LA where a life of an entirely different type might be awaiting him.

How else to explain it? He, the man hiding behind all his different identities and her, the woman hiding behind her walls, her rules… the Agency. No one had cared to look so deeply into him before to see…

He was held spellbound by the vision of Laura standing a step outside the terrace doors.

She smoothed her hands over her dress nervously. As soon as she'd seen it laid out on the bed, she'd understood exactly where his mind had been when he'd selected the one-shouldered, white silk floor length gown. It was nearly identical to the dress she'd worn the night they'd thrown their first dinner party, the one designed to snare Wallace's killer. Yes, she understood the reference, but it didn't mean she understood the meaning, although she was certain there was one.

She lay her hands in his when he held his out.

"You're stunning, Laura," he complimented, leaning in to whisper his lips over her cheek. Removing her hands from his, she pretended to brush off a piece of lint on his shoulder.

"You don't look too shabby yourself." She looked up at him and studied his face. "What's the occasion?"

"Lay that suspicious mind of yours to rest, Laura," he scolded lightly. "We've a month of evenings to make up for." He guided her to the table and assisted her into her seat before removing the chilled bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. Popping the cork, he poured them each a flute of bubbly then sat down next to her

"What shall we drink to?" she wondered aloud. A soft smile lifted his lips.

"To time together," he suggested. Her smile matched his when they engaged in their traditional toast.

Dinner was a sumptuous feast: a salad of mixed greens and vegetables tossed in a balsamic vinaigrette, the British tradition of Beef Wellington, grilled asparagus and roasted beets in a balsamic glaze, followed by a trifle for dessert. Champagne, conversation, laughter and glancing touches had flowed freely. By the time the last plate had been silently cleared from the table, their appetites had been fully sated, and Laura had needed to smother more than one yawn as the long trip and too little sleep began to catch up with her. Seeing this, Remington stood and offered a hand, inviting her to dance.

"I get the impression Tilly doesn't care for me," she noted as they swayed and turned slowly to the music. A regretful smile twitched at the corner of his lips, and he bent down to scatter kisses along her brow as he spoke.

"It's me she'd put out with," he informed her quietly. Her hand stroked his back as his lips moved to her eyes, then cheeks.

"Why?"

"She discovered I was in London last summer and hadn't come round for a visit," he provided. He reared back his head to look down at her. "I don't want to talk about Tilly this evening, Laura," he mildly admonished. "I'll tell you all you wish to know tomorrow, I give you my word." He raised his brows at her. "Tonight is about us." She lay a palm against his cheek.

"Alright," she agreed softly, then slipped her hand into his hair and cupping the back of his head, eased his lips down to hers.

A pair of eyes watched the younger couple through the window as they danced and kissed.

"Shameful, that's what it is, Harry bringing his doxy here and carrying on all about the house, acting as though he is man of the manor," Tilly griped to her husband. Milton lay gnarled hands upon his wife's shoulders.

"Aw, Tilly, I know you're upset with the lad for not coming 'bout more often. Maybe that's why you are unable to see what I do," he suggested.

"And what is it you see?" she asked, begrudgingly.

"Harry looks at the girl the way I look at _you,_ " he told her. "Look at him, Til. Put aside your anger and truly look at him."

"He's changed," she sniffed. "Thinks himself better than all the rest of us."

"That's not true and you know it as well as I," he refuted. "He's somehow found peace and in doing so has allowed his heart to open to love. I'd hoped for it for the boy, but had never believed it would truly happen after the life he'd lived." He gave her shoulders a tiny shake. "Isn't that what you always wished for him as well? Well, if that lass is responsible for it, I tell you she deserves to be given a chance." He reached for her hand and turned her around. "Now dance with me, Til." She blushed to her roots and swatted at his shoulder.

"We're too old for such a thing." He shook at his head at her.

"We'll never be too old."

On the terrace, Laura and Remington's lips parted. She blinked up at him.

"Let's go to bed, Remington," she suggested, a hand caressing his neck.

He didn't need to be asked a second time.


	29. Chapter 29: Every Night

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If you are uncomfortable with such material or under the age of 18, please continue on to the next chapter when it is uploaded.**_

* * *

CHAPTER 29: Every Night

Laura shivered when she reached for the zipper on her dress and Remington brushed her hand away. Stepping close behind her, he reached for the zipper, tugging it down only partway before resting his hands upon her shoulders.

"Let me." His breath warmed the skin of her neck when he spoke. She shivered and reached behind her, her hands grasping the sides of his thighs as his lip languidly grazed on the skin of her neck and shoulder.

"I've missed you, Laura," he murmured against her skin, his mouth suckling on her collarbone, while a hand skimmed down an arm.

"I've missed you, too," she whispered. His hand skimmed up her arm and a single finger came to rest on her lips, requesting her silence. The most minute of nods indicated her agreement.

"I've missed the scent of your hair..." Shifting behind her, he lowered the strap of her dress over her shoulder, so his lips could dance attendance there. A hand stroked her sensitive waist, drawing a sigh past her lips.

"The taste of your skin…" He suckled on her collarbone, leaving a faint red mark that he eased away with the brush of a thumb. A hand behind her tugged down the zipper the remainder of the way. The dress puddled at her waist where his hand still caressed.

"Every last one of these glorious freckles…" He traced a trail of the dapple of colors with the tip of his tongue, then blew lightly over the wetness. She moaned quietly and tried to wriggle from his embrace. He shifted again, drawing her tighter against him as he dress fell to the floor to pool at her feet. Realizing his words as much as his touch were heightening her arousal, he continued to speak as a hand glided over her abdomen, upwards, to cup and knead a breast.

"I've missed the feeling of your flesh beneath my hands…" Talented fingers plucked and teased a nipple just as she liked, as his other hand traveled southwards, finding her panties already damp from her desire.

"The way you respond to my touch…" His own breathing was coming hard as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her panties. Brushing her wet flesh aside, he found the sensitive nub ensconced there, flicking and stroking in time with his the fingers toying with the nipple of her breast. Turning her head, she tipped it backwards, and with a palm against the back of his head, urged it downwards. His mouth smothered another moan as it passed from her lips.

It didn't take much to send her over the edge. His words, his touch, his familiarity with her body, the taste of him, _his presence_ , were enough to do that. The explosive climax rolled over her small frame. Her back arched and her body quaked. Sure in the safety of his arms, when her knees threatened to give way, she continued to ride the wave of ecstasy. Even before the last quiver left her body, she brushed his hands away and spun around in his arms. Dragging her fingers through his hair, she pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed him again.

He shed his jacket as she unknotted his tie and tossed it aside. Her lips left his to trail kisses along his jaw then down her neck as her nimble fingers released the studs of his shirt. Tugging his shirt tails out from beneath his pants, she slipped it over his shoulders and watched as it fell to the floor. Her hands traced his collarbone, then slid downwards, pausing so that her fingertips could play in the matt of hair on his chest.

His hands wandered over her back, caressed her sides, stroked the curve of her panty clad bottom. When her hands reached for his belt, her lips peppered kisses over his chest. He slid her panties over her hips then helped her step out of them. She returned the favor, easing his pants and briefs down. As he stepped free of the clothing, her hand closed over his erection, stroking him. She swirled her thumb over the engorged head, drawing a guttural groan from his throat. His arms wrapped around her, but before he could draw her to him, she palmed his face in her hands then waited until his eyes met hers.

"I love you," she whispered, with a stroke of his cheek.

His reaction was as fierce as it was instantaneous… as she knew it would be. A pair of hands beneath her arms lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he turned and took them to the bed. She knew instinctively that given their long parting, he'd let her choose the pace and position, but after his absence there was only one way she wanted him this first time. Rolling to her back, she grasped his sides in her hands and encouraged him to ease over her prone form. His clever fingers removed the pins from her hair then he dragged his fingers through the silken strands before he spoke.

"Laura, I love you," he vowed, fiercely. She fingered back a lock of hair off his forehead.

"I know."

In a single thrust he buried himself to the hilt, panting at the sensation of her warm, wet flesh snugly sheathing him. She drew her hand down his back, over the cheeks of his bum, while grinding her hips against him in a hint that he should move. And move he did. With slow, purposeful thrusts, as his mouth wandered from lips to shoulder to breasts to lips again, he coaxed her body upwards, until soon she cried out as her body quaked and her inner muscles clenched his erection drawing him further in. No sooner than the first had subsided than he repeated the moves, rapidly taking her toward her third crescendo of the evening, but she was having none of it. She wanted him to fly with her this time, and a nudge of his shoulders sent him to his back. Straddling his hips, she took him back inside her body, setting a pace guaranteed to destroy his impressive stamina. As she hovered on the edge of another orgasm, she leaned down and latched her mouth over the skin of his collarbone, drawing it into her mouth, as a hand stroked his neck. He grabbed at her hips, clutching them as he lifted his hips from the bed, thrusting in time with her, then suddenly stilling. The image of him emptying his body into hers sent her own climax rolling over her.

She collapsed on top of him, breathing hard. For a long while they lay, bodies still joined, his hands quietly stroking her hair, her back while her fingers plucked at the tips of his damp hair. Finally, she pressed upwards while shifting her hips. He slipped from her body, making him shudder slightly at the loss of her warmth. The kiss she landed on his lips making up for it… a bit.

"I'm going to take a bath. Care to join me?"

He hauled her down for another kiss, then rose after she did and followed her into the bathroom.

* * *

Laura ran the sudsy washcloth over Remington's chest and shoulders, as he reclined between her legs, head resting on her shoulder, and his eyes closed.

"The Earl's project is keeping me busy, that's true enough and I can't deny it's a worthy cause, but…" he sighed in frustration and stopped speaking. She rinsed out the washcloth and squeezed water over him, rinsing him off.

"But what?" she asked quietly.

"I want my life back, Laura. A life I worked bloody hard to make for myself. I want to go to the Agency each day, I want to go home of a night. I want our evenings and weekends together." With a shake of his head, he finished quietly with, "I want to cook for us while you're out running, to stuff you full of cotton candy at the pier, then walk the beach until the sun sets."

"I want that for you, too," she answered just as softly, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. "For us." He nodded his head, then clasping her hand in his, gave it a tug.

"Switch with me, love."

The endearment, uttered on occasion by him without conscious thought, warmed her blood as it always did. The only sound in the room for long seconds was the water lapping against the side of the tub as she moved to recline between his legs. He reached for the washcloth and lathered it with soap.

"If it helps any, I hate it, too," she admitted, feeling his honesty deserved a turn of her own. "I want to put my hands around Keyes _fat neck_ and _strangle_ him!" she decreed passionately, making a motion with her hands as though his hands were between it at that very moment. The tension in her shoulders beneath the washrag made him look questioningly at the back of her head.

"Has something else happened?" he wondered.

"Because having you deported isn't enough reason?" she snapped. She held up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for." She sighed heavily. "The Denks' case?"

"What about it?" he asked as he set the cloth aside, then eased her slightly forward. He frowned at the knot he found beneath her shoulder, and dug in his thumbs to work it out. She drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly as the pain eased.

"A set up. All of it." She lifted a hand to rub a pair of fingers against her brow. "The real Marney Denks died six months ago. The imposter was working with Keyes all along." As the one knot released he searched for the next while battling back his own surging temper. "Even worse? The documents provided to me by Denks were all forgeries, and I didn't know. The jewels were actually insured by Vigilance, and I didn't know. Keyes had been _surveilling me_ and I didn't know," she concluded, her fury with herself threading her words. Her anger at herself fueled his own.

"To what end?" he demanded to know. She sighed, heavily, and her hand dropped down into the water.

"He had pictures of me breaking and entering. Those combined with the paste replicas would have been proof enough for Vigilance to try to bring charges against me while Keyes and his accomplice made off with the real gems." His fingers continued to move, leaving loosened muscles in their wake.

"We're going to have to find a way to stop this bugger's intrusion into our lives, Laura," he ground out.

"I know. If you have any suggestions, I'm open to hear them, because, frankly, I'm at a loss," she admitted. "I can take the recording of him confessing that he attempted to frame me to Nalbourne at Vigilance, but I think that will just make Keyes more determined and more than likely damage our own credibility. If word circulates that we don't even know when we're being tailed…" She left it to him to finish the thought. He hummed his understanding.

"I don't like it, Laura. I'm not at all comfortable you out there on your own when Keyes has put a target on your back." He closed his eyes and grimaced, unseen, then forced the words past his lips. "Maybe it would be for the best if you found a partner—"

"That's out of the question," she cut him off before he could finish.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name in disapproval. Swiftly, she pulled away from him then turned to straddle his lap.

"I said no," she told him firmly. "I already have a partner. A new one is not an option." She palmed his cheek in her hand, her tone softening. "Besides, by the time I trained someone, you'll be home." He scowled at her.

"Which will mean bloody little if you're behind bars or worse," he pointed out. She couldn't deny his point. With a reluctant shake of her head, she offered a concession.

"If I feel there's a risk of that happening, I'll call Murph. Otherwise, no new partner." She drew her fingers through his hair. "Enough talk. We can do that over the phone." Pressing up on her knees, she leaned in and kissed him.

His last thought for a while was it was the first time he could ever recall Laura not wishing to talk.

* * *

Later, as they lay in bed, Laura's leg sprawled over Remington's and her fingers absently twirling in his chest hair, he closed his eyes as sleep threatened to drag him under.

"This, Laura. I miss this." He felt more than saw her head nodding.

"Me, too," she answered drowsily.

"When this is over, I never again wish to fall asleep at night without you by my side." Her fingers stilled their movement. Silence fell around them as she considered his words at length.

"That's a bold statement coming from you, Mr. Steele," she finally replied, as her fingers began to move again.

"Maybe once," he mumbled, "But now, I can think of little I want more."

Moments later, his even breathing signaled to her that he'd fallen to sleep. Sleep would elude her much longer as she wondered exactly what he'd meant.


	30. Chapter 30: Remington's Project

CHAPTER 30: REMINGTON'S PROJECT

Laura's eyes blinked opened and stared at the unfamiliar clock on the bedside table. Four-fifty-eight. They didn't need to be up for another two hours. She smiled at the familiarity of Remington's body spooned around hers, then with a soft nudge waited for him to roll to his back before turning over herself and tucking her body against his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

"Can't sleep?" he mumbled the question. With eyes still closed he wrapped one arm around her waist and stroked her arm with his free hand. Her lips lifted in a soft smile, as it occurred to her a very warm, very nude Mr. Steele shouldn't be wasted. Tipping her head back, she pressed her lips to his neck, while her hand evaded his and slid ever southward to caress a very sensitive piece of his anatomy.

"I can think of something I'd rather be doing," she hinted, huskily. His eyes flew open and a low rumble, half-laugh, half-moan, rose from his throat. A pair of fingers tipped her head back further.

"Now sleep is the furthest thing from my mind as well." As he leaned in to kiss her, she slipped away, only to rise up then lower herself over him, straddling his waist.

"Then it would seem it's my responsibility to tire you out again," she murmured, as she drew her hands through his hair then leaned down and kissed him….

* * *

Laura waited until Remington had fallen back to sleep, then eased out of his embrace. A long shower helped refresh her. Dressed for the day, she slipped from the room and made her way downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Quietly, she opened cupboards until she found teabags and a pair of mugs. Filling the kettle with water, she put it on the burner then lit the gas flame. As the water heated she stared out the French doors, looking across the terrace and landscaped backyard.

Daniel raised with every advantage? Yet another anomaly amongst so many about the man. Intelligent with a keen sense of humor, quick with, and a natural elegance, why choose to live his life upon the shady side of the street? Was it as Remington had suggested, and the reason was nothing more than the challenge, the adrenaline? Or was there something else?

More bothersome, if he had all of… _this…_ why fish a boy off the street, only to groom him for a life of crime? The memory of what he'd once said came to her.

* * *

" _ **Harry is one of a kind. A true… artist."**_

* * *

She couldn't argue with the thought. Remington was most definitely one of a kind. She'd never known anyone with instincts as sharply honed as his. His agile mind and remarkable memory had proven crucial in solving many a case. His abilities were beyond compare, from planning out the finest of details for a heist to his nimble fingers and sensitive ears coaxing open a safe with ease.

But he was so much more than just those skills which would make him ideal for a life of flaunting the law.

A _true_ artist. She'd seen just a sampling of his abilities during The Blaster case. He had a discerning eye for classical paintings, a sure hand when drawing. With a little encouragement and training – well, the possibilities were endless.

He had a keen intellect that Daniel was well aware of. How else could one take a semi-illiterate child off the streets and turn them into an art and jewelry expert… a chameleon… in only a few short years? A few years of tutoring followed by the University and what might he have become?

She glanced towards the teapot, rubbing at her arms.

If she and Remington were going to have a future together, she was going to have to find a way to make peace with Daniel and the choices he'd made.

She nibbled at her lip.

Maybe the way to do that was to admit to her own selfishness. She winced at the idea and rubbed at her arms again. She didn't particularly like or admire herself for the thought… or the feeling… but the fact remained, if Daniel hadn't turned the lost boy into the man that he had, her path and Remington's would have never crossed.

Once, not so long ago, on a beach where the waves crashed, the wind tousled their hair and a light rain gently spritzed their faces, she'd admitted to him, regrettably, that her life had been less interesting before he'd arrived, but much easier. For four years she'd struggled against her attraction to him… her feelings for him. Each time she'd begin to trust in him, would take a step closer to him in their personal relationship, he'd inevitably try to pull a fast one, making her turn away. Yet, each time, she'd find herself returning to him.

Easy or not, he enriched her life in ways she could have never imagined anyone doing, in ways no one else could have done.

The tea kettle whistling drew her attention from her thoughts. Filling the mugs she set out, she dipped the tea bags by rote, then let them settle in the mugs to steep while she opened and closed drawers looking for a spoon.

"I would have made that for you, Miss," Tilly announced as she walked into the kitchen, clearly unhappy at finding a stranger poking about in her territory.

"I'm sorry," Laura offered, accompany the apology with a contrite smile. "Unlike Mr.—Harry, I'm not very comfortable with people waiting on me when I'm perfectly capable of brewing a pot of tea on my own. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Getting so full of himself now that he no longer enjoys cooking his meals then, is he?" Tilly sniffed with disdain. The comment… and the rancor… took Laura aback, but she carefully schooled her reaction to the latter while allowing her surprise at the former assumption to show upon her face.

"Actually, Harry is highly regarded for his culinary skills and except for an occasional business meeting over dinner or an evening out, he prefers to cook the meals for us himself." She laughed ruefully. "Thank God, because if he was relying on me, we'd both starve. I can barely make an edible grilled cheese sandwich." Despite Tilly's best efforts, Laura's genuine warmth was beginning to thaw the older woman's icy demeanor.

"Don't know how to cook, then?"Laura laughed again, this time with a tinge of embarrassment.

"Not from lack of trying on my Mother or Harry's parts," she shared. "In fact, after I lost my house, I converted an old warehouse space into an apartment and Harry insisted the design of the kitchen and it accoutrements be left in his 'capable hands.' I secretly suspect he believed if it was left up to me, the only appliances I'd install in my kitchen would have been a refrigerator and coffee maker."

"Lost your house?" Tilly couldn't resist asking. Sadness flashed through Laura's eyes at the memory of the explosion then the piles of charred debris remaining in the aftermath.

"My grandmother's house, actually," she clarified. "She left it to me when she passed away. Harry and I were investigating a case of industrial espionage. One of the suspects took exception to our efforts, and decided we needed to be eliminated. He planted a bomb in the house that was triggered when Harry opened my front door for me when he escorted me home. Had my cat not escaped when Harry opened the door, we would have been inside instead of on the lawn when the bomb detonated." She shivered at the memory. She'd been so devastated by the loss of her home, so afraid of the unknown, it wasn't until months later that she recognized if not for a bit of kismet in the form of a cat, she and Mr. Steele wouldn't have survived that evening.

"Do the likes of that happen to you and Harry often?" Tilly asked, clearly stunned.

"We've made our share of enemies over the years," Laura confirmed. Disturbed by the thought, Tilly returned to the original, more pleasant, subject.

"Do you not wish to learn to cook then?" Laura pursed her lips to the side in thought.

"I think," she answered with great consideration, "Cooking is an art. And like most arts, you either have the talent or you don't. In my case, I don't. Even more so, as Harry would say, I'm the 'impatient sort.' It's much more expedient to grab a yogurt and spoon than it is to plan and execute an entire meal," she shrugged.

"The impatient sort when it comes to such matters as cooking and cases, yes," Remington commented as he entered the kitchen, having heard the last part of the conversation as he approached the room. "But some might say she is absurdly patient in other areas, waiting _years_ before deciding something has aged to her liking." He lifted his brows meaningfully at her, as he leaned in to brush his lips over her cheek, grinning when color infused her cheeks at his reference.

"I'm a woman of discerning tastes, Mr. Steele," she replied, cheekily, despite the pinkening of her skin. "I prefer a fine, mature bourbon over a cheap, adolescent whiskey." Under the watchful eyes of Tilly, the corners of his lips twitched and his eyes danced with amusement at her retort. Laura's eyes skated over his slim frame dressed in jeans, boots, and chambray button down, then over her own skirt and blouse. She'd forgotten his recommendation to dress down for the Haven House. "I'm going to go upstairs and change," she advised, as she handed him his mug of tea then picked up her own to take with her. "What time are we leaving?" He glanced at his watch.

"Eight-thirty will give us time enough to get there and survey the work completed yesterday before my first interview of the morning." He raised his brows, as a thought came to mind. "I'd like you to sit in on those interviews, if you wouldn't mind giving me your thoughts."

"Of course," she agreed, before turning to Tilly. "Thank you for letting me invade your kitchen this morning."

"I'll have breakfast ready within the half hour. Would you prefer it in the dining room or on the terrace?" the older woman inquired. Remington and Laura exchanged looks.

"The terrace, I believe," he answered. "It's not often enough we have mornings as nice as this one in London." As Laura left the room, he reached for an apple, dropping it when a spatula rapped his knuckles.

"Was that necessary?" he protested, shaking his hand to try to relieve the sting.

"I won't have you spoiling your breakfast, Harry," Tilly admonished. "Off with you, now. Take your tea to the terrace. I'll bring a fresh pot with your meal."

Feeling much like a tot in knickers admonished by his Mum, Remington left the room muttering beneath his breath about obstinate housekeepers.

* * *

"The question," Remington posed, "Is how to furnish each of the units meant for the children while bearing in mind what they'll need, initial cost, and replacement cost should something go amiss."

Laura walked around the room, one arm crossed over her body, the fingers of her other hand stroking her throat as she considered the room. The bedrooms that would house the children weren't large rooms at twelve-by-ten or so, but more than sufficient for what was necessary.

"If it were me, I'd keep it simple but warm. Paint an accent wall here," she held her hands up towards the wall. "No headboard, like in my loft, just several large, fluffy pillows on a single sized bed. A small, circular table here, like the 'build it yourself' ones you can pick up for just a few at a dollars discount store. Add a lamp to it and you have a bedside table. I don't imagine any of them will be bringing much with them, so I'd do a small, upright dresser here," she indicated the area between closet and door, "Then over here, a simple desk with chair," she pointed to the wall opposite the bed. "Add a couple of framed posters to the walls for color, an area rug, drapes on the windows, and the bedding and I imagine it wouldn't cost more than three-hundred-fifty, maybe four hundred dollars a room." He'd been scribbling away in his notebook as she'd spoken, certain she'd have the solution before he'd even asked the question.

"Shall we go downstairs and have a look at restaurant? The crew have finished up renovations of the units for the most part. Tomorrow they should begin the demolition of the kitchen and dining rooms." He held out his hand towards the stairwell, she took the lead, stalling at the bottom of the stairs. "Turn right and follow the hall, then take the door on your left.

"Alright," she agreed with a touch of uncertainty in her tone. The hall, even during the daytime, was dark and shadowy, this part of the building windowless and the old gas lamps high above offering little illumination. "You need to do something about the lightening in here, Mr. Steele. Anyone could lie-in-wait behind the staircase for who knows what purpose."

"Already addressed. We'll be walling off behind the staircase, eliminating any hiding spots and updating the lighting," he assured.

With some relief she stepped through the indicated door and into the kitchen of the restaurant: On the back wall a dilapidated stove and oven combination, refrigerator, sink and prep area, while the opposite wall was lined with a long grill and griddle combination below a serving window, replete with two order wheels.

"Suffice it to say, all this will go, replaced with new… and more importantly, working appliances." Remington supplied. "While I'd like to close off the wall, so the cooks don't feel under constant inspection, I'm afraid there's not sufficient space to set up a pick-up area in here."

"I rather like watching the cooks at work," Laura commented. "It makes the atmosphere somehow more… friendly, I guess." His brows furrowed at the suggestion, as she walked through the swinging door into the dining area.

"Everything in here will go," he announced, gesturing around the room with a hand. The only thing that will remain are the walls, which I've been assured are in sound condition."

"But why?" she asked, drawing out the words in clear disagreement, as she ran a hand along the long, bright red, Formica counter.

She turned around slowly, taking the entirety of the room in. The bar was trimmed in white tiles with a double row of red ties in the center. Nine silver toned bar stools, topped in red upholstery sat in front of the bar. Along windows and wall, red naugahyde booths with white formica and silver trimmed tables were lined up, and in the center of the room another half dozen tables of the same style as those at the booths were surrounded by metal, heart shaped chairs with red cushions. A black and white checkered floor finished up the space.

"What do you mean why?" he asked, surprised by the question. "Nothing's been updated for at least fifty years! I mean, look at it!" He flipped a hand at the room while shriveling his nose.

"That's exactly my point, Mr. Steele. I have to say, I'm rather surprised you're so shortsighted on this."

"Short—" He gave his head a small shake. "How do you figure that?"

"Your love for old movies, particularly film noir. You're a man who enjoys nostalgia. How can you not see it here?" she wondered. "I'm willing to bet this place was a center of the community at one time: Families coming here after church and for dinner, teenagers sharing a shake and fries while on a date. Restored places such as this make a fortune in LA for a reason: It reminds people of a simpler time, when community was most important." He rubbed his fingers along his chin as he gave thought to her proposal.

"So what would you suggest?" he asked, acknowledging her idea might hold merit.

"Restoration, not demolition. Recover the booths, chairs and bar stools; shine the metal; strip the floor then polish it. Add an old fashioned jukebox over there in the corner," she pointed out the area, "That offers both golden oldies and newer music. Framed movie posters and other inexpensive collectibles, like old Coke signs, on the walls. Offer the inexpensive standard foods that both families and teens enjoy: Hamburgers, hot dogs, BLT's, French fries, shakes and malts. Once a week, do a drawing for…" she spun around as though looking for inspiration, her face lighting up when she found the answer "…Two tickets to that movie house we saw driving in. Now, you're supporting local businesses while encouraging people to patronize this one."

"I don't know how many people will feel safe bringing their families here, Laura," he pointed out. "It isn't exactly in the best of neighborhoods, if you'll recall."

"Then use the money you save by renovating and hire security," she reasoned. She walked to the counter beneath the ticket window and behind the bar. "Old fashioned looking blenders at either end, so people can watch as their shakes and malts are made. Glassware for shakes and sundaes displayed here," she cut a pair of palm down hand across the middle length of the bar, beneath the window. She turned around, and frowned down at the old, partially glass enclosed case on which an old register sat. "Get rid of this old case, bring in a small freezer that can hold four to six five-gallon buckets of ice cream, and offer a 'flavor of the week.' Put your staff in uniforms that resemble the malt shop attire of the fifties. The place will be a—"

"Good morning," a masculine voice called from behind the duo, cutting Laura off and turning them both around to face the visitor.

"Can I help you?" Remington inquired.

"Timothy and Coraline Hannigan," the man announced. "We've an interview scheduled with a Mr. Mick O'Leary."

"Mick O'Leary at your service," Remington greeted his voice suddenly infused with an Irish brogue. He stepped forward to shake the couple's hands "My associate, Laura Blaine."

"Glad to meet you," Laura offered.

"Please, come, have a seat," Remington offered. After cordially assisting Laura into her seat, he sorted through the files in front of him then handed one to her for her to skim. "Let's get started, shall we?"


	31. Chapter 31: The Hannigan's

CHAPTER 31: THE HANNIGAN'S

"So, tell us about yourselves, your family," Remington suggested as a starting point.

"Charles Hannigan. I'm thirty-one, born and raised right here in Brixton, only three streets over," the average height, on the plump side, sandy-haired man began. "I'm a tutor by trade. Married thirteen years now." He reached for his wife's hand and squeezed it. "We've two children, Lydia, who's nine, and Max, who's eleven."

"Coraline Hannigan, although most call me Cora." Her voice held a quaver, but grew more assured as she went on. "Also, thirty-one, but still just the littlest of bit younger than Charlie." He grinned at what Laura perceived as an ongoing commentary within the couple's marriage. "I've been a manager of Pat's Restaurant the last three-and-a-half years, and managed Jax's Place for nearly four years prior to that."

"Jax's?" Remington mulled, fingering his chin. "If I recall correctly, it burned during the riots of '81. Am I correct?" Cora nodded her head.

"You are, elsewise I'd still be working there," she confirmed.

"What are your duties as manager of the restaurant?" Remington inquired.

"I suppose the easiest answer to that is: Everything," the somewhat homely, yet somehow lovely, brunette laughed. "If we're short staffed I cover as cook and waitress. I've even been dishwasher a time or twenty. I balance the tills at the end of each shift and place the grocery orders thrice weekly. I'm responsible for hiring and terminating staff, as well as seeing to the satisfaction of our guests. Really not much to it compared to some jobs, but I enjoy it."

"Don't undersell yourself," Laura advised, genially, "It's impressive that someone as young as yourself is entrusted with being part of the success or failure of a business, although I suspect the restaurant does quite well if the rest of the staff are as committed as yourself." Cora fairly glowed under the praise.

"I appreciate your saying so, ma'am."

"What subjects do you tutor in?" Laura asked Charlie.

"Math, the sciences, history and geography, ma'am." She was impressed and it showed.

"I was a math major at Stanford University back in the States. Where did you go to University?" Charlie seemed uncomfortable with the question.

"I didn't, ma'am. There was quite a brood of us at home, and my parents weren't in the position to send us. I'd always wanted to be a teacher. Tutoring is as close to that as I can get and I assure you, the students placed in my charge learn well. I hope you won't hold my lack of a formal degree against me." Laura gave him a reassuring smile, while touching her fingertips to Remington's leg beneath the table.

"Some of the most intelligent people I know didn't attend University," she shrugged. "We each have a path we're meant to take, even if it wasn't part of our plan for ourselves."

"That's a very insightful thought, ma'am," Charlie complimented.

"It took me a while to learn myself," she replied.

"Ms. Hannigan, given the years you've spent in the restaurant business, particularly here in Brixton, I'd be interested in your opinion on a matter concerning the restaurant," Remington stepped in.

"What matter might that be, sir?" Coraline asked. Remington swung an arm out indicating the room at large.

"We're to begin demolition of the restaurant Monday morning, and by this time next week it will be taken down to only the walls—" He paused when he saw the look of disappointment cross the woman's face. "Do you find the thought of a blank slate disturbing?" He leaned in slightly, studying her.

"Umm, no, sir, I mean, um—" His intent gaze left her flustered. "I meant no disrespect, sir. It's just Pop's was here long before I was born. As a child, I came here for special treats. After Pops passed, his son took over and ran in into the ground, more concerned about running drugs and the like than earning an honest living." She shook her head sadly. "I simply can't imagine it being anything else, I suppose." Her eyes flew upwards, at what might be interpreted as impertinence. "I don't mean… I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect. I'm sure you wish to modernize it, as most would."

"But, you'd prefer it to stay as it's always been," he speculated. Coraline shifted uncomfortably in her seat again and looked at her husband.

"Cora," Laura stepped in, "Feel free to speak your mind. Mr. O'Leary wants your honest opinion, and it won't be held against you, including for this position." Cora's shoulders sagged, but after a moment lifted again, and she spoke with determination.

"There are few places in the neighborhood that remind people of happier times in Brixton: The market on Electric Avenue, Market Row, the Windmill and Windmill pub, Brockwell Mansion, The Bijou and, for near on thirty years, Pop's. Ever since word got 'round Pop's would be reopening, the long-timers have been looking forward to getting a bit of our history back," she explained. "I wouldn't change much of anything. Clean it up, make it look new, but leave the memories worth having intact." She sighed at the end of her soliloquy.

"It's certainly food for thought," Remington replied. "Miss Blaine thought much the same." Cora's eyes flew to Laura's face.

"You did?" the woman asked in surprise.

"I do," Laura answered in the present tense. "Places like this are a gold mine in Los Angeles for a reason." The tension immediately left Cora's shoulders, as Remington turned to her husband.

"Tell us, why are you interested in this position?" he asked, bluntly.

"Well, I'm afraid that's a bit of a story, if you don't mind me telling it," Charlie replied.

"By all means," Remington agreed with a wave of his hand.

"After the restaurant burned during the riots of '81, Cora was left without a job," he began. "We've never had much, nary a quid in the bank at the time, but had hoped my tutoring jobs would keep us afloat until she could find another job. Following the riots, Brixton and its people fell into uncertain times. It's nearly always been a struggle for families to keep their heads above water, but with no one confident the riots wouldn't break out again, places stopped hiring, and what money families had, they clung to. Within two weeks, I had no students left and shortly after that we found ourselves unable to pay the rent and living upon the streets."

"We tried to make an adventure of it, for the children's sake," Cora stepped in. "We purchased a tent, a little gas stove and cooler, pretended to be camping…"

"But as little as they were, Lydia and Max knew something was amiss. The best we could do is to try and keep up appearances that we were having a grand time," Charlie added.

"Could your family not help, take you in?" Laura wondered, horrified by the idea of the family being left homeless.

"Times were tough. We weren't going to be a burden upon them or anyone else," Charlie answered. "We pretended to still be living in our flat, while Cora looked for a job that might get us on our feet again."

"I found it was impossible to get a job without so much as a phone number for a prospective employer to call to schedule an interview, or to call me in when short staffed. Finally, I applied at the Bijou. I'd known Mr. Chapman nearly all my life and he offered me the part-time position on the spot," Cora offered. "It wasn't much, but if we saved carefully, we'd be able to have the children back in a home before winter, at least we hoped."

"But come October, the weather had turned cold. On a couple of the more bitter nights, we dipped into our savings to let a cheap room for the night while on others we purchased tickets to a double feature to allow the children some warmth."

"Mrs. Chapman eventually caught on, though we'd never said a word," Cora continued. "We hadn't considered the small details such as the children out so late on a school night, or what they might allow to slip when she'd invite them up for cookies and milk. The Chapman's insisted we abandon our camp and move in with them. Their children had all grown up and moved away and they had the space."

"Within the week Cora had her present job, and I took over her part-time position at the Bijou, whilst doing repairs around the theater and the house, my contribution for our room and board. Right after the new year, we were back in a home again—"

"And promised, if ever the opportunity arose," Cora finished, "That we'd give back as had been given to us."

"So when Mr. Chapman told us what you're planning on doing here and recommended we apply, it seemed like—"

"Kismet," Laura finished with a wide smile. She couldn't help but like the couple, as they reminded her of her and Remington with how they finished one another thoughts and sentences.

"Exactly," Charlie confirmed with a wide smile, "Although I'd never thought to put it in that term."

"You'e no worried about bringing you tykes into a home, for lack of better word, filled with juvenile delinquents?" Remington pressed, still all business. The couple looked at one another, and with a nod of her head, Cora indicated Charlie should answer.

"Cora and I have spoken of it, but only very briefly, Mr. O'Leary. While there are, quite for certain, some delinquents living on the streets of Brixton, there are a great deal of children who've run from intolerable situations." He exchanged glances with Cora again. "We assume it's the latter who will need us looking over them, guiding them, not the former. Are we incorrect in this thought?"

"You're not," Remington confirmed, then abruptly stood and held out his hand. "We appreciate you coming in. I'll be meeting with the Earl of Claridge this afternoon and you should hear one way or another by day's end." Charlie rose and shook his hand, then offered Cora a hand up.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. O'Leary, Miss Blaine," Cora offered.

"It was our pleasure," Laura replied in exchange, shaking the woman's hand.

Together they watched the couple depart, then Laura turned to look at Remington with questioning eyes and a crinkle between her brows.

"Well, that wasn't like you, at all," she remarked with a censorious tone. His eyes flitted away from her face, and he focused his full attention on shuffling the files on the table before him.

"I've no idea what you mean."

"You… _dismissed_ them and, frankly, you bordered on being rude. That's not like you." Her voice rose on the last and she shook her head at him to enunciate her point. He looked up at her through his eyelashes, then quickly lowered his eyes back down upon seeing the disapproval on her face.

"The interview was over," he noted, in an entirely too neutral of tone that indicated he'd no desire to discuss the matter further.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded to know, his avoidance pricking at her temper.

"What is it that you would have preferred I'd done? Should I have invited them for tea and crumpets?" he huffed, scowling up at her. Her lips thinned, and she gave a single, sharp nod of her head. Wheeling around, she marched towards the door.

"Lau-ra," he called at her back, drawing out her name. She spun around, plunked her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"What?" she snapped. He licked at his lips nervously.

"Our next interview will be here in ten minutes," he offered.

" _Your_ next interview, Mr. Steele," she retorted, coolly. "I'll be upstairs. You can come get me when you're ready to leave."

With that, she turned back around and disappeared through the kitchen doorway, leaving him staring at the spot where she'd just stood, rubbing his face in frustration.

* * *

Two hours and twenty six minutes later, Remington wrapped up the last of the four remaining interviews, then locked the door behind the gentleman as he departed. Gathering together the files and his notes, he shoved them into his attaché then went in search of Laura. He finally located her on the third floor in the one apartment that had needed to be taken down to the studs after a roof that had been obviously leaking for years had damaged ceiling, floors and drywall alike. She was busily painting the a pair of walls with primer where the drywall had already been hung and the seams taped, not evening when he appeared in the doorway.

Or, was outright ignoring him, which he had to admit was a distinct possibility given how things had been left downstairs. His unconscious sigh drew her eyes in his direction. Standing, she touched the brush to a spot on the wall she wasn't satisfied with.

"Are you ready to leave?" Her tone was completely impersonal and he smothered the urge to wince. _Still put out with me, then._ Despite that, he couldn't help the smile that twitched at his lips, believing her adorable with paint smeared on forehead, cheek and the tip of her nose. Of course, should he dare to use such a descriptor of her, he'd find himself firmly in the doghouse for likely the remainder of her trip. He stepped into the room and walked towards her.

"I am." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at the tip of her nose. "I was going to suggest we stop on the way back to Daniel's to buy Bernerd's graduation present, but I suspect you'll want to shower first."

"It would be nice," she replied in that same tone.

"Laura," he took a step closer to her—

And heard something whistle past his ear before a sharp rap against the drywall in front of him revealed a nail partially imbedded there. Turning, he faced the men framing out a wall.

"A little more care with hitting your target with those nail guns, mates," he warned. "Someone's errant shot nearly took off my ear."

"Sorry, boss!" the foreman called out before reprimanding his men, "You heard what the Boss said. Watch what you blokes are doing!" A round of mumbled 'yes, sir's' and 'sorry, sir's' were said by the lot of them.

Remington returned his attention to Laura, and quirked a crooked half-smile at her.

"Given the number of accidents around here, if we were home in Los Angeles, I might think I was in the sites of one of the derelicts we've put behind bars in the past." He held out his hand indicating the door. She frowned back over his shoulder at him as she stepped out of the room.

"You haven't said anything to me about other accidents." He lifted a careless shoulder and dropped it.

"There was nothing to tell, really. Some scaffolding collapsed, a portion of the roof caved in…" he justified. "From what I understand, these types of mishaps are fairly common when restoring a building as old as this one. You never know what you might find, or what might give way."

"I'm sure that's true, but scaffolding collapsing and a nail gun mishap have nothing to do with the building itself," she reminded him.

"And as I said, if I were in LA I might be concerned that these accidents had a more dastardly intent behind them. But I'm not in LA, and, so far as I know, no one in Brixton bears me a grudge." She shook her head in disbelief.

"It wouldn't have to be someone from Brixton, Mr. Steele. I'm sure there are any number of people here in Europe who wouldn't mind eliminating Mick, John, Paul, Michael, Harry, Richard…" she threw up her hands "…or _whoever you were to them."_

"Why is it every time something like this comes to pass, I feel I'm obligated to ask again: Exactly how many enemies do you think I have, Laura? To the best of my knowledge, the number of people who'd like to perforate _whoever I was_ ," he emphasized, as he tossed her words back at her, "Is about the tenth of the length of the list who'd not only like to but _have attempted_ to do the same to Remington Steele."

"Need I remind you," she commented, haughtily, "The quantity of people theoretically after your neck is far less important than the one who is." He rolled his eyes behind her back. "Have you at least checked on the where your enemies are recently?"

"No, but I will if we can set aside, once and for all, any notion these minor accidents are anything more than exactly that," he agreed testily, regretting having said anything to her at all.

"Agreed," she barked back as she stepped onto the landing and continued towards the door.

As they stepped outside, he lay a hand on the small of her back out of habit as they walked towards the car. While she didn't yank away, he felt the subtle stiffening of her spine and he mentally sighed. This wasn't, at all, how he'd hoped the day would go. He reached in his pockets for the keys and found them quickly snatched from his hands.

"I'll drive," she volunteered in a voice that said it a command more than an offer.

He was tempted to point out she was not only unfamiliar with driving from the right side of the car or on the right side of the road but also that she had no idea how to get back to Daniel's. Wisely he decided now might not be the time to make mention of either given the hot water his feet were currently bathing in.

He resigned himself to a terrifying drive through London and the countryside.


	32. Chapter 32: A Ways To Go

CHAPTER 32: A WAYS TO GO

By the time they arrived at Daniel's, Remington had come to accept he'd have to tell Laura why he'd acted as he had – if, that is, he wished to salvage the remainder of her visit. It appeared, however, that her willingness to talk, or even listen, had vanished some time ago as she barely paused to grab the outfit she'd put on earlier in the day and fresh underclothes from a drawer, before locking herself behind the bathroom door.

The sound of that latch was… offensive, he finally concluded as he paced the bedroom floor. She was bloody well pissed at him for not wishing to speak about what it was that had him abruptly end the interview with the Hannigan's, but when _she_ didn't wish to speak, it was perfectly fine for her to run off and hide, be it behind those blasted walls of hers he'd been battling against since first they met or by placing actual walls… or space… between them.

It was bloody well exhausting, this 'do as I say, not as I do' attitude of hers. In fact, they'd come up against it – yet again – not too long ago.

* * *

 _ **"Laura, how is it when I do something dangerous it's reckless, but when you do something suicidal, it's a good idea?"**_

* * *

Impulsively, he grabbed a pen from Laura's purse, disassembled it and used the ink cartridge to disengage the lock to the bathroom.

"Why did I even bother to lock the door?" she huffed, tossing up bubble covered arms.

He was momentarily distracted by the sight of her, hair piled atop her head, submerged from neck down in a tub full of bubbles. Why had he thought she was planning to shower? He didn't know and shook the thought off.

"We need to talk," he insisted, walking further into the room to lean his backside against the counter, crossing arms and feet, while peering down at her with a penetrating gaze. She swiveled her head to look at him, assessed his mood, then turned her head back around and closed her eyes.

"I have nothing to say," she replied, sounding exhausted by merely the thought of conversation.

"You know, Laura, it occurs to me this demand of yours for open communication is not a two way street. Why is it when I don't wish to speak it's a matter of me holding back or even a violation of your trust, yet when it is you who doesn't wish to speak it is fully justifiable, and I am expected to fall in line, respect your need for a bit of privacy? Hmmm?" Behind her eyelids, she rolled her eyes, dismissively.

"Funny, I've always seen myself as an open book." Eyes still closed she mimicked opening a book with her hands.

"Is that so?" he hummed, while nodding his head slowly. "Tell me about the day Wilson left, Laura." Pain slashed across her face, and she inhaled sharply before her lips thinned and her mouth clamped shut. He nodded his head slowly again, his point made.

"You know more about me than anyone else, by far, including Daniel," he told her quietly. "Why, then, is it so bloody difficult for you to understand there are matters from my past that are as painful and as difficult to speak of as that day is for you?"

Quietly, he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Gathering together clothes to wear to dinner, he left the room, and showered in a guest bathroom.

* * *

Remington and Daniel were already enjoying afternoon tea when Laura entered the sun room. Both men stood, the former assisting her into her seat, before both men regained their own chairs.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she apologized. A look at the men's plates and tea cups suggested high-tea was halfway over, at least.

"Glad you could join us, Li—" A glower from Remington had Daniel clearing his throat, then correcting himself. "Laura. Harry said it might take a while to scrub off the paint from your morning endeavors." She glanced at Remington. Had he really expected her to snub her host?

"Thankfully the paint was confined to my face and hands," she smiled

"So, tell me, Laura, what did you think of Harry and the Earl's little project?" Laura placed her hands in her lap as Tilly arrived with the tea, a selection of pastries already displayed on the table.

"I think," she answered slowly, "That Haven House and the restaurant are going to offer invaluable contributions to the community and both of their efforts should be applauded." She mentally sighed. If she was going to make strides towards a truce with the man, she was going to have to start sometime. "I imagine you feel much the same given your efforts when… Harry… was on those same streets." Why is it she found it painless to refer to Remington as such to Tilly, but to do so with Daniel was like pouring hot sauce on a freshly bitten tongue? That Remington was staring at her with a thoroughly baffled look didn't help matters at all. She focused her eyes on her cup and saucer as Tilly filled it. "Thank you, Tilly," she offered before the older woman departed.

"Oh, but Harry was extraordinary. I doubt you'll find many diamonds in the rough on those streets these days," Daniel answered as though there had never been a pause in between. "The way he picked my wallet was sheer… poetry. Had it been anyone but my own pockets, he'd have gotten away clean."

"You're right. I doubt there will ever be another one like him…" Laura began, then mumbled under her breath "… at least let's hope not…" then continued, "But maybe some of those kids only need what you offered him: a place where he was safe and someone who believed he, as a person, was worth the investment."

"Not all will be, in the end," he theorized. Laura turned her hand over on the table, conceding the point.

"Yes, some may return to the streets. Yet even if one girl is kept from turning to prostitution or one boy doesn't end up in prison trying to survive, isn't that what really matters?" she argued. "The kids that are saved, the ones who grasp onto a way out and cling to it for all its worth. Like Mr-… Harry did." She cocked her head slightly to the side and looked at the two, suddenly laughing men. Seeing the look, Remington held up a hand and tried to swallow his laughter.

"I don't know if I'd go quite so far as 'clinging to it for all its worth," he said, clearing his throat to chase away another laugh when he finished that sentence. "I lit out on Daniel on more than a couple occasions."

"And a few of the rows we had between the times he'd run off were truly spectacular," Daniel joined, not even bother to disguise his laughter. "I once told you he was full of anger at the world, but I never told you he was ungrateful as well."

"Well, what should one expect?" Remington rebutted. "I'd been living by my own rules for some years by then and here you come along haranguing me about my studies, comportment, curfews and even the bloody length of my hair!" Daniel waved a hand at Remington, choking on his laugther.

"So what did you do?" he guffawed. "Declared your new idols were those boys from Liverpool… the Beatles… and you intended to emulate them in every way: your dress, your attitude, and, of course, your hair."

"And did you?" Laura asked quietly, not wishing to end this rare moment of openness between them. Remington gave her a wide, unguarded smile and raised his brows.

"Down to the suede jacket, Chelsea boots and shaggy hair," he admitted with great amusement. "Daniel finally had enough, and threatened to have me held down while he shaved my head personally. Needless to say, I had a few choice words of my own, before I stormed out vowing to never deal with the overbearing, pompous ass again."

"What made you go back?" She dared to risk another question, dazzled by this glimpse into what seemed to be happier times in his past

"In my pique of indignation, I forgot one very, salient point: It was the dead of winter," he grinned. "Two nights huddled up in an old warehouse convinced me I'd become too used to the luxuries of food, heat and regular showers. I swallowed my pride, and sailed through the front door, as though nothing had ever been amiss."

"And I tossed him right back out again, told him not to return until his hair was cut like a proper gentleman-in-training's should be," Daniel crowed.

"I was infuriated by his high-handed tactics, so I stayed gone three days that time," Remington confessed, "But he had me, and he knew it. This time I knocked on the door as though a visitor. When he opened it and saw it was me, he promptly slammed it again. 'I told you the terms of returning. Come back when it's done.'"

"He pled empty pockets, of course, so I slid him a five spot beneath the door," Daniel finished. "Two hours later he showed up properly groomed."

"After having made a bit of a profit, I might add," Remington bragged, giving Daniel a devilish look. "I had the money straight along, but if he was going to force me to comply with his sodding command, then I may as well make a little blunt for my troubles." Daniel studied Remington's face then chuckled, while clapping him on the upper arm.

"I have to admit, my boy," he conceded, "You slipped that one past me, but it was rare that you managed to outfox me." Remington smirked at his mentor, as Laura silently watched the parlay.

"Perhaps more often than you think," Remington gloated.

"Nonsense," Daniel insisted, with a wave of his hand, "I don't believe it."

"Ever wonder why I was so eager go to the market when there was shopping to be done?" Remington asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

"Not at all. If memory serves there were a couple of young ladies clerking there that you took a fancy to," Daniel reminisced.

"A couple of lasses that, with a promise of a few kisses when their shift was over, would accidentally fail to ring up two or three of the higher priced items…" Remington allowed Daniel to come to the logical conclusion. Laura watched, fascinated, as Daniel's face transformed from jovial to stern, yet he somehow managed to quirk up a disappointed brow.

"I'll have to sit down this evening and tally up a bill for all you owe me, Harry," Daniel threatened as Remington rose and slid Laura's chair back.

"I'm afraid we need to leave should you still wish to pick up Bernerd's gift before I'm due at the Earl of Clariges," he explained to her, as she rose with a questioning look on her face. With the explanation, she nodded her head.

"I think we should, so we don't have to fit in the time to do it on another day." As Remington slid her chair back under the table, he leaned towards Daniel, a cocky grin on his face.

"You go ahead and do that, old man," Remington addressed Daniel's earlier remark, "But it will be a waste of time you could spend on more enjoyable pursuits." He lifted a single, smug brow of his own. "I don't owe you a quid. You gave me money for food, I provided that food along with every bit of change leftover from the bill those purchases would have amounted to. Now, what I owe to the market…" he pretended to shudder "…is another matter altogether."

"Thank you for the tea, Daniel," Laura offered as Remington stood and lay a hand on the small of her back indicating it was time to go.

"You're most welcome," he returned from where he still sat. "I've a couple matters to attend to, but I'll see you at dinner tonight, Harry."

"Look forward to it," Remington acknowledged. He and Laura turned to leave the room.

"Daniel's coming to dinner?" she asked in an undertone.

"Mmmm," he hummed the confirmation. "The Earl and Countess hold what I suppose one might refer to as a whist tournament each Friday night, hosting a dozen or so people. Daniel attends more often than he doesn't."

"That seems like an awfully sedate evening for Daniel," she observed.

"It is," he agreed, then looked back over his shoulder towards the room they'd departed. "He's slowing down, Laura, enough so that I believe his claims of retirement are legitimate. Sure, he half-heartedly tried sell me on one last gambit together when I first arrived, but not a word since."

"Well, that doesn't sound at all like him. Are you concerned?" He pursed his lips and gave the matter some thought before slowly shaking his head.

"If he weren't healthy as a horse, I might be. But as it stands now? No, I'm not."

As Remington pulled open the front door to the house and allowed Laura to pass, he hoped their earlier discord had been put to bed.

* * *

Laura and Remington kept conversation light and easy from Surrey to London. His suggestion of a late morning ride and picnic lunch the following day was greeted with a smile of pure pleasure from Laura while her request that on Sunday he give her a tour of what he considered London's greatest treasures made a matching smile appear on his face. By the time they stepped through the door of the shop he had in mind, the easy camaraderie between them had been restored. This time when he reached for her hand, she tangled her fingers with his.

The store had delivered as promised. They'd selected an antic cognac cordovan leather attaché, of the mind that something other than the traditional black might give Bernerd a little bit of much needed swag, then had tucked a top-of-the-line silver pen and pencil set into the interior of the bag. Wrapping, Laura had insisted, could wait until she was home, otherwise the paper would be crinkled and the bow a mess by the time it went through luggage at the airport.

By the time they'd driven halfway to the Earl's estate, a quiet silence had filled the car, both of them mulling events earlier in the day. Unspoken truce or not, the altercation had highlighted two of the most profound difficulties of their relationship: Their mutual habit of turning inward when unpleasantness swirled around them and her habit of her construing his silence as lack of trust.

It was him who finally broke the silence.

"I was ten-years-old when I landed on those streets of Brixton, Laura," he began with quiet difficulty, "A scrawny tyke with a chip on his shoulder after too many years of being shuffled around, knocked about, foolishly believing I could take care of myself better on my own than any of my so-called family had done up until then. I spent the entirety of the first night huddled in the corner of an alleyway trying to be invisible, as it was a ploy that had seldom failed me in the more volatile homes: Be neither seen nor heard and you might go to bed without a mark on you that night. The second evening I didn't fare nearly as well." He paused with a staccato breath, and the tip of his tongue anxiously touched against his lips, trying to moisten them.

She lay her hand atop of the hand that she still held, then patted it as she slowly, but decisively shook her head.

"You don't have to do this," she insisted.

Taking a long, cleansing breath, she let it out in anxious puff. She'd taken time to truly consider what he'd said to her in the bathroom, had analytically examined his charge from every angle, and found there was a good deal of truth in it. He'd been correct earlier, as loathe as she was to admit as much, but there were things in her past she'd never spoken of to him – despite knowing he was curious – and he'd never asked her to divulge, yet every time he retreated with his own memories, she saw it as proof that he still didn't fully trust her and likely never would. Each time, either her temper would flare and she'd push him away, or she would be hurt by his silence and flee.

If they were ever to have a future together, they had to stop falling into old habits.

"You were right… earlier," she continued, finding the words against her tongue not quite so bitter as she'd expected. "It's not fair to demand you revisit the past for me when there are parts of my own past I'm reluctant to revisit myself." She patted his hand again. "I'd like to believe there will come a time when that happens more easily for both of us, at least with each other, but I think we've both been guarding certain parts of our past for _so long_ that out of habit alone it'll will take us a while to get there."

"But it would be nice to get there together, eh?" he asked, the memory of that night in Acapulco nearly three years before coming to mind, when their past and fears had collided much like they had earlier that day.

"It would," she agreed softly, patting his hand again. He squeezed the hand he was holding.

"I don't want to spend your time here at odds with one another, Laura," he half-confessed, half-pled as his eyes dared leave the road for a moment to look at her. "We have very little time left as it is."

"I don't want to fight either," she admitted, wearily. "I'd much rather have shared that bath with you this afternoon…" He smiled openly at her, then returned his attention to the road.

"Then perhaps we'll have to enjoy one this evening, hmmm?"

"I'd like that," she agreed, then with a contented smile, turned towards her window and watched the scenery fly by. A minute ticked past when his rich voice broke the temporary spell.

"They never asked about the apartment," he mulled aloud. She swiveled her head to look at him.

"Who didn't?"

"The Hannigan's," he supplied. "Every other applicant, be they a couple or a singular individual, made it a point to intersperse the interview with questions about the apartment and any other perks of the job."

"Why do I think this is more than idle conversation?" she inquired.

"If we are to be honest, we both knew they were perfect for the job," he admitted aloud. "And if we hadn't? That the apartment and pay wasn't important enough for them to bring up at all, let alone several times… Well that told me all I needed to know." She tapped a finger against her cheek, playfully.

"Well, Mr. Steele, they did say…" she drew the words out, then looked straight at him, "They wanted to repay the generosities someone else bestowed upon them," she reminded.

"Anyone can say that is their goal, Laura, but the Hannigan's actions show that they truly do," he countered. Her face lit up when she understood.

"Deeds." He couldn't help but turn to smile at her.

"Deed, indeed," he confirmed, then returned his eyes to the road.

"When do you plan on telling them?"

"Tonight, I hope. The final decision is the Earl of Clarige's, of course," he noted, "But if he agrees, I'd like to call them before we sit down to dinner."

"They'll be thrilled.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "It was never about the Hannigan's, Laura."

"I know."

She closed her eyes and dozed, the motion of the car lulling her for the remainder of the drive.


	33. Chapter 33: Traits

Chapter 33: Traits

"Miss Holt," the Earl of Claridge greeted when she and Remington stepped into kitchen, "It's a pleasure to see you again." Taking her hand in his, he held it while leaning in to buss her on the cheek. Surprised at the display of familiarity she gave Remington a querulous look over Thomas's shoulder, unseen by their host. A tilt of his head and a lift of his brow told her he had no idea what had inspired the token of affection.

"Laura, please," she insisted without missing a beat when Thomas spoke. "The feeling is mutual, my Lord."

"Thomas," he declared, adamantly. "I believe saving my life more than entitles you to use my given name."

"Need a hand?" Remington offered.

"We'll begin with a Caprese stuffed avocado this evening," Thomas announced, then expounded, "I'll admit I'd considered French Onion soup for a spell, but today has been unusually warm, so it seemed something on the cool side was in order."

"The main course?" Remington inquired, as he took Laura's hand and assisted her into one of the tall stools tucked under one side of the island. Her eyes fell upon the confection Thomas was leaning over and her mouth instantly began to water.

"Prime rib, roasted parsley and parmesan potatoes, followed by a raspberry white chocolate trifle for dessert." Thomas glanced in Laura's direction. "I believe Remington once mentioned you have a partiality for chocolate." Her eyes flickered in Remington's direction, then back to the Earl. _Exactly how close have these two become the last month,_ she wondered, that her predilection for chocolate would have been a topic of conversation.

"I do," she confirmed.

"If you'll prepare the potatoes, the lower oven is heated and waiting," Thomas addressed Remington. It was then that a second realization struck Laura, delayed as it might be by her sleep-deprived muddled mind.

"You _cook_?" Her skin pinkened and Remington chuckled at her uncharacteristic outburst.

"Don't mind Laura," Remington apologized for her as he put on an apron, "She has a natural aversion to cooking… All part of her charm." He gave her a quick smile for good measure, while she bit her tongue to prevent her from pointing out her shock derived from far less than her dislike of and general incompetence at the task, than the fact the man had grown up with a household full of servants.

"I've always found it quite relaxing actually," Thomas informed her, as Remington turned to the sink with a half dozen potatoes and began washing them.

"The same could be said about Mr. Steele," she shared, propping an elbow against the counter and resting her chin in her palm. "I think the only time I've seen him completely unguarded is in his kitchen." Remington's brows furrowed. While he would not argue he found keen pleasure in tinkering about his kitchen, was that truly the only the time she believed him completely at ease? He found the thought troublesome for some reason, and couldn't quite put a finger on why.

"Mmm. We do seem to have that trait in common," Thomas acknowledged, as he topped a layer of cake and raspberry jam with white chocolate mousse . "Remington, would you mind checking the temperature on the roast. I imagine it's time we take it from the oven and allow it to sit a spell."

 _Traits,_ Laura silently mused.

Watching Remington and Thomas together now, she was reminded again how many _traits_ the two shared: The dark hair bordering on black, but mixed with rich sables; their strong jaws and high cheekbones; their height; their proper bearing. She smiled to herself… their slightly large ears. Now, she noticed even more commonalities: Large hands with long, elegant fingers; the way their hairline receded ever so slightly at their temples; the way they'd gesture with those hands as they spoke; the tendency of the right corner of their mouth to lift and drop in the blink of an eye when amused; and, even their courtly mannerisms. With a mental tilt of her head from side-to-side, she acknowledged the last might be as much trained, as innate, as both were taught to be gentleman, to hold themselves proud and tall.

Yes, the two men shared a good deal of attributes, enough so that the prior September she'd come to believe – with all her heart – that the man speaking to Remington at this moment was, in fact, his father.

As he'd lain, injured and bleeding, in the bed of that filthy flophouse room, she'd listened with no small tug of her heart as he relayed his chase after a name – one that he might finally give to her.

* * *

 _ **"My name. My real name. I knew how you'd feel if I wouldn't give you that… if I couldn't be honest about… other things."**_

 _ **"I don't care what your name is. Make one up. It'll be all right with me."**_

* * *

It took him finally leaving to make her understand that. Maybe she hadn't needed his name, per se, but she'd needed _something_ from him for them to move ahead, something more than…

* * *

" _ **I'm not planning on cutting a fast tango through your life and I'm not going to stop wanting you but those are the only guarantees I can give you."  
**_

* * *

She'd needed some kind of… commitment… words… some form of tangible proof that she wouldn't wake one morning to discover he'd simply… gone away.

At least that is what she'd believed.

Then after he'd disappeared, she'd learned the only thing she really needed was… him - whatever his name was, whatever his past, and even if he could make no promises beyond today. At least she'd have that today _with him._

There in that flophouse, he'd held before her the watch mysteriously delivered the year before. He'd discovered the name behind a set of the initials inscribed inside the watch: K.L. Kevin Landers, aka the Earl of Claridge. He hadn't had a clue that the Earl of Claridge was the chief suspect in the Whitechapel murders. She hadn't been able to bring herself to share that news with him. He'd waited a lifetime to find out who he was. What would learning he was the son of a serial killer have done to him? Somewhere deep inside, there had always been a small part of him that believed 'like father, like son'. A discovery such as that might well have been catastrophic to his psyche, reinforcing his belief that he was entitled to nothing... not even that coveted name.

She'd worried. She'd hoped she was wrong.

For Remington's sake.

Yet, as much as she hadn't wanted to think it was possible, as soon as she'd met Thomas, she'd seen…

Then, as she'd waited, worried and hoped, rejecting the proof that seemed to be right before her eyes, Remington had gone and shocked the hell out of her… Something he'd seldom managed to do.

Long ago, Daniel had told her of the boy he'd found on those Brixton streets.

* * *

" _ **When I found him, he was an uneducated, unsophisticated, unwanted young man, filled with hostility and violence."**_

* * *

Laura had never disputed this claim of Daniel's. Many times over the years, she'd felt the simmering rage of betrayal living deep within Remington, clawing at his heart. In some ways, that anger was responsible for fueling his innate need to protect what he saw as his: He'd never let go so easily of someone he cared for, someone he trusted, as his own family – his own parents – had done to him. How many times had he acted rashly when he'd believed her safety might be at risk? Parasailing into a guarded compound, rushing a gangster whose bully boys surrounded him, shoving her out of the path of a bullet although he might be hit himself, lunging for her when she'd been knocked off a beam when they were many stories up… The list went on.

She pursed her lips, in thought. It was also why he'd placed at risk everything he'd been fighting to call his own with first Daniel, then Anna and Henri. By attempting to help Daniel with Hoskins, while keeping her in the dark, he'd risked her trust, his life as Remington Steele. With Henri again, he gambled with his her trust… and that time, the Agency. Then there was Anna. Anna for whom he'd considered killing in cold blood to protect, Anna whom he'd almost permitted to take his own life.

When he spoke of his childhood, the stories – even his most fond - were never tinged with happy reminiscing or a pensive smile. He'd go somewhere deep within himself, describing the moment as though he was watching a movie – numb, removed. She'd never forget the story he'd shared with her, the Christmas of when he was only ten years old. Already on the streets, wistfully following a father and son home, then releasing his anger that the scene before him was never to be his own. The moment was poignantly heartbreaking.

For all these reasons, she'd always believed, somewhere in the back of her mind, that should he one day find his father, every ounce of the hurt, the fury for the travesty of a childhood he'd been forced to endure would be directed at one of the first people to abandon him. Yet, when he'd spoken of Kevin Landers aka The Earl of Claridge there in that room, there hadn't been anger in his eyes, but _hope_ \- quiet longing even - that perhaps he'd at last be linked to someone… that he might finally find a name all his own. Throughout, as he'd shared his discovery of the mysterious K.L., he'd held the pocket watch in his hand. The pocket watch that was proof he hadn't been abandoned, but lost; that he'd been wanted, loved even, not discarded without remorse.

She'd wanted it to be true for him, once the Earl's name had been cleared. Had come to believe it to be true, their similarities undeniable.

When the Earl had delivered the devastating words, 'hazel eyes', she'd attempted with some desperation to _make_ it true.

* * *

" _ **Are you sure? You said you only saw him once."**_

* * *

But Remington had done what Remington does: He'd graciously accepted the Earl's explanation, had brooded on it for a while, before locking it away – dismissing it all, as though it had never happened and therefore had never mattered.

"Laura?" Remington called her into the conversation, then saw by the look in her eyes she'd been drawn into her thoughts. "Lau-ra," he drew her name out, grinning when she blinked and her eyes cleared. "Mind on a case? Some tedious detail you forgot to handle at the office before departing?" he teased.

"Sorry, sorry," she held up a hand in apology, "I think the jet lag's finally caught up with me. You were saying?"

"I was telling Thomas that I doubt there is a more ideal match for both Haven House and the restaurant than the Hannigan's. Don't you agree?" he asked, swiping a piece of carrot then leaning over the counter to plop it in her mouth. "Eat. Get a bit of energy. If you go to sleep too early, you won't adjust."

"Just in time to fly back home," she noted, ruefully, talking around the carrot. "Yes, I agree. A tutor with some mechanical abilities, a restaurant manager, and a couple who can actually relate to what these kids have gone through because of their own personal experiences."

"Come to think of it, should we hire the Hannigan's, the second apartment for staff wouldn't be needed…" he mulled aloud as he bent over and pulled a baking sheet out of a cabinet. _Just how often has he been cooking here?_ she wondered. "The Hannigan's would need the larger place with a girl and a boy, but we should be able to put rooms for two more children in there."

"Or," she drew out the word, scratching a cheek with the tip of her finger, "You could turn it into an all purpose area. Use one of those bedrooms as private tutoring space, then open up the other bedroom to enlarge the main room. Couches, tables, alternative seating, a good size television and VCR, add some appropriate movies and board games to a shelf. The Hannigan's could have a movie night, a game night for anyone who wants to join and otherwise it's a place for kids to congregate under watchful eyes."

"An inspiring idea, Laura," Remington praised, setting the baking sheet in the oven.

"I find I'm rather fond of the suggestion myself," Thomas seconded, as he drizzled a mixture of raspberries and shredded white chocolate on top of the trifle

"More importantly, there's a careful line we need to tread," Remington reminded. "A good deal of these children will have chosen the streets over living in a group home where one is made to feel they are being punished for being cast aside or because they believed their survival depended on them striking out on their own. Should we wish this venture to be successful so that we might obtain funding for the next, we have to provide a place where children will feel at home, safe but not institutionalized, keeping in mind, first and foremost, success will be measured by their willingness to stay."

"The next?" Laura asked, with a tilt of her head.

"Mmm. There's a building just a few blocks from the one we're renovating right now," Remington supplied. "It's slightly smaller, sitting atop a small market. Reconfigured, there should be enough room for another fourteen or so bedrooms."

"Sounds like you'll be staying in London for a while, huh?" she speculated.

"Oh, we're speaking nine months, possibly a year from now," Thomas corrected."We'll need some time to prove the residents of Haven House an asset to the community, while at the same time determining whether the restaurant will make the home self-sufficient given the property has been bought and paid for in full."

"And if that's not the case?" she queried.

"Then we'll look at the shortfall, which I can't imagine would be a great deal, and develop a fundraising strategy. If Haven House fails it will be neither due to funds nor lack of effort." She raised her brows and lifted and dropped a hand, rendered momentarily speechless by the passion he'd exuded.

"You're very committed to this," she observed.

"The things I saw, that I've been oblivious to my entire life…" he replied in a troubled voice. "A child should never know such suffering, no matter if they ran, were tossed away or lost. And the parents of those children who hadn't been thrown away, who'd been lost or taken? To spend a lifetime looking for their child only to discover what they'd been forced to endure by a—"

"Ahhh, here you are," Daniel announced strolling through the kitchen doorway.

"Daniel!" Remington greeted in surprise. "I thought we wouldn't see you until dinner." Daniel made a display of checking his watch.

"I seem to recall dinner was to be served at seven and it is now six-fifty." Remington glanced at his own watch to confirm, then reached to untie his apron.

"You're quite right. Thomas, if we're in agreement on the Hannigan's I'd like to ring them up, if you don't mind, before we sit down for our meal."

"We are," Thomas concurred. "Feel free to use the phone in my den. I'll just inform Mrs. Gunderson the meal is ready to be served. We'll be in the dining room this evening."

"We'll be along shortly," Remington assured. As he spoke he walked around the island, then offered Laura a hand down from her stool. "Care to make that call with me?" Laura smiled as she stood.

"I'd love to."


	34. Chapter 34: In a Meadow

Chapter 34: In a Meadow

The Hannigan's had been beside themselves when they'd received the phone call from Remington and Laura that they'd been selected for the positions at the Haven House. Certain that they'd muddled the interview, the only call they'd anticipated was one letting them know the position had otherwise been filled. A half-dozen times they'd apologized for whatever gaffe it was they'd committed. Laura had been remarkably proud of Remington when he'd taken the whole of the blame upon himself, even if he hadn't expounded upon the why of it, which she would have neither expected nor have asked him to do.

Dinner had been a pleasant affair and the food was nothing less than spectacular… and very, very filling serving to take her from 'tired' to positively drowsy. Acknowledging Laura's wakeful hours were quickly dwindling and wishing to spend time alone with her in light of the disastrous day, he begged off from whist on their behalf. Within two minutes of departing the Earl's, sleep had stolen her away. He turned the radio on low, so as not to disturb her, and enjoyed the drive back to Daniel's along the dark, country roads.

He parked the car in the circular driveway in front of the house, and cut the engine. Turning in his seat, he caressed her cheek with a thumb until her heavy eyelids reluctantly fluttered open.

"Let's get you inside and to bed, eh?" It took a long second for her sluggish mind to catch up. She sat up abruptly.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, automatically. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you again."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he dismissed. "You're jetlagged, Laura. If anything, I count this to our favor." She frowned, unable to decipher why.

"Oh?"

"We've two days ahead without a single obligation. Sleep tonight and you'll be up with the birds, recharged for the days ahead." He waggled his brows at her. "And who knows how we might put that energy to good use, eh?" With a laugh and an eye roll, she gave his shoulder a playful shove before turning and reaching for the door handle.

Without ceremony, Laura kicked off her heels as soon as they entered his bedroom and by the time he'd closed the bedroom door, she'd already tugged down the zipper to her skirt and kicked it aside. He followed suit, handing her his shirt when she held out her hand for it. Securing only a single button, she tumbled into bed. Moments later, after pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, he slid under the covers with her then reached over and extinguished the light. Rolling to him, she rested head on his shoulder and weaved one of her legs through his.

"There's no reason to sleep your evening away." Even as she said the words, she snuggled closer to his familiar warmth. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt to find skin. He began to stroke her back slowly, lightly, a touch meant not to arouse but to soothe her to sleep.

"Laura, for weeks now I've been forcing myself awake at ungodly hours either to see to the work here or to call you before you sleep. Believe me, I don't consider a good night's kip a hardship…" he pressed a kiss to her head "…Especially when doing so with you in my arms."

With a nod of her head, she succumbed to her dreams.

* * *

Remington flinched in his sleep. Grunting unhappily, he turned to his stomach while slinging an arm and leg over Laura in an attempt to escape whatever it was ticking the back of a knee. Laura's lips lifted in a smile and a mischievous glint made the depths of her brown eyes sparkle. _Perfect._

She'd been awake for nearly a half hour. The first fifteen minutes had passed pleasantly enough as she'd mentally reviewed their plans for the day, and planned her wardrobe, but she'd grown increasingly itchy. How could she not with his warm body wrapped around hers, his breath rustling her hair… a promising start nestled between the cheeks of her buttocks. She'd finally decided that they'd both slept enough and it was time to play.

Slipping out from beneath his arm and leg, she eased a hand between his legs and caressed his sac with a delicate hand while scattering nip-kisses over his deliciously firm bum. A pair of blue eyes popped open and a hum passed a pair of lips.

"Well rested I take it?" he feigned casual interest, shifting slightly when her hand slid further upwards between his legs to caress a rapidly hardening piece of his anatomy. She, on the other hand, laughed low in her throat when the muscles in his bum twitched and he shivered as she drew the tip of her tongue along his spine, then suckled gently.

"Bursting with energy," she confirmed perkily, slinging a leg over him and settling her bottom on his. She drew her fingers down his back, then upwards over his sides. "Intend to do something about it?" His eyes slanted towards the clock, not that there was any true question where his intentions were concerned. Six-fifty-two. It was actually later than he'd imagined she'd wake.

"Perhaps." He carefully twisted around beneath her, until he lay on his back and she straddled his hips. Reaching up, he released the single button holding his shirt closed and swept the material aside with his hands. Her hips wriggled against him when he stroked her sensitive waist with his thumbs. "Although, one might think given you're 'bursting with energy', it would be your intentions that count, hmmmm?" His eyes twinkled up at her as he allowed her to come to her own conclusions. A smile spread over her face and her brows lifted in answer. Drawing her fingers through his hair, she bent down, her loose hair cascading around them.

"I think that can be arranged…" she whispered, then taking control of their lovemaking, she kissed him long and deep.

* * *

When next Remington opened his eyes, he muttered an oath beneath his breath when he found the spot Laura had been sleeping in empty and cool to the touch. _Can't make the woman bloody well stay put,_ he groused to himself, although he was smiling when he sat up and slung his legs over the side of the bed. He dragged a hand through his hair as he looked back over his shoulder at the alarm clock, then grimaced. Nine-forty-seven. Well, that certainly explained it. Laura was not one to lounge about in bed all day…

A smile lit his face.

Well, unless he was keeping her occupied…

Standing, he gathered clothing from drawers and closet then stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

* * *

Laura sat at the dinette table, already garbed in riding gear for the afternoon ahead, and laughed over her cup of tea.

"Harry banished from a kitchen?" she mused. "I can only imagine how he reacted to that."

"He had a few choice words, he did," Tildy replied, as she bustled about the kitchen, "But a couple of raps with a spatula across those knuckles of his taught him I not only meant business but I wouldn't be taking any guff from him either. If he wished to learn to cook in my kitchen, he'd learn to ask properly, elsewise he could just take himself on."

"And did he? Learn?" she asked, plopping a piece of muffin into her mouth.

"It took several months, but I eventually prevailed," Remington boasted as he entered the kitchen. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over Laura's cheek and then spoke in a quiet voice, that only she could hear. "Mornin', love." She fidgeted in her chair at the endearment – much to _his_ amusement. His eyes shifted from her to Tilly when the older woman snorted.

"Prevailed," she mocked. "Learned your place, I'd say," she countered.

"Or perhaps Daniel endless lessons manners finally sunk into my…" he glanced at Laura and smirked at her "…'thick head.'" They shared a smile at the memory as he warily reached for a muffin, prepared to retreat should he see a spatula come his way, then had to resist the urge to snatch his hand back when it closed over a muffin. He flashed Tilly his most charming smile as she set a cup of tea before him. "Not even an attempt to crack my knuckles, Tildy? Dare I hope you've finally forgiven me?"

"The picnic lunch you requested," the elderly woman replied, dropping the basket on the counter before him.

"Appreciate it, Tildy," he thanked then turned to look at Laura. "Are you ready?" With a nod, she dropped the last bite of muffin in her mouth.

"I just need to grab my gloves," she replied, standing. "Tilly, thank you for the muffin. It was delicious. I'll be back down in just a minute." Remington watched her depart as he sipped his tea.

"The lass is not at all what Daniel made her out to be." He turned and looked at Tilly, brows raised in surprise, as much for the words she'd spoken as the fact she was voluntarily speaking to him at all.

"No, she's not," he confirmed. "I think it would fair to say Daniel's perceptions of Laura are colored by their… complicated… relationship." She half-huffed, half-laughed, waggling a finger at him.

"There's that word again. It was too complicated for you to stop round these last five years," she harangued, "The relationship between Daniel and the Miss are complicated. There seems to be a good deal of that going 'round, and you're standing right in the middle of it all." He lifted his brows at her over the rim of his teacup. She crossed her arms and stared at him, expectantly.

"If you're waiting on me to deny the charge, we could be at this awhile," he warned. When she continued to stare at him, with some exasperation he lowered his cup and sat it on the counter. "Look, Tildy, do I like that the two of them are at odds? No, I don't, but there's not a thing I can do about it either. They have to find their peace with one another on their own and heaven knows, it'd make my life considerably easier if they did."

"I'm ready," Laura announced as she reentered the kitchen. Picking up his teacup, Remington drank down the last of his now lukewarm tea and finished his muffin in two bites. Grabbing the picnic basket by its handles he held his hand out in the direction of the doorway. "Let's."

"Dinner at seven-thirty?" Tildy inquired at their departing backs. His feet paused momentarily, Laura coming to a stop alongside him.

"Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to prepare dinner for Laura and I myself this evening. We'll go to the market after our ride." Tilly dried her hands on her apron and gave him a sharp nod.

"Just be sure to clean up after yourself."

Making a hasty return across the kitchen, Remington leaned down and bussed the old woman on the cheek.

"We will," he assured.

He had a smile on his face when he and Laura departed.

* * *

It had been the perfect afternoon thus far: a sedate ride through the woods and fields on Daniel's property and, now, a mid-afternoon picnic lunch, by a large pond bordered on one side by a meadow and the other a lush copse of trees. Tilly had outdone herself, packing cubes of meat and cheese, sweet fruits, crisp vegetables, fresh French bread and a truly delicious chardonnay. The ride, the warm sun and light breeze, combined with good food and a decent wine settled a quiet mood over the pair. When Remington stretched out on his back, cushioning his head on folded arms, Laura didn't hesitate to lie down perpendicular to his lean frame and lay her head upon his stomach. With a quiet smile, he removed an arm from behind his head and absently stroked her hair, toyed with her braid, as she watched the Canadian geese swim and glide over the water.

"Geese, fox, pheasant, deer," she quietly recited some of the wildlife they had encountered that day. "Does Daniel hunt?"

"Daniel abhors guns, always has. In fact, I believe the only one I've ever seen him hold was during the Hoskin's sting."

"Another anomaly," she said thoughtfully.

"What's that?" he quickly asked. She lifted a hand and dropped it.

"You'd think given your childhood and growing up on those streets, that you'd be prone to violence, yet while you'll defend yourself, in general you hate it."

"You said 'another', implying more than one," he reminded. She frowned, then with a lift of her brow and quiet, breathy snort, recognized the slip she'd made.

"Last night at the Earl's," she explained, "Watching the two of you working together, I couldn't help but think of last year." She gesticulated with a hand and nodded her head, as though having decided something. "I like to think I know you pretty well, but then – every once in a while – you shock the hell out of me," she explained, voice rising in emphasis on the last words, then dropping to mutter, "…although not usually in a good way."

"Oh? And I did then? In a good way?" Sitting up, she shifted to lie on her side. Propping her head in a hand, she looked down at him.

"Yeah, you did," she confirmed. Without conscious thought, she twirled designs against his chest with her fingertips as she spoke. "I suppose…" she drew out the words, "I'd always believed when you found your father, all the anger, all the…" she nodded her head "…hurt, the betrayal you felt at the childhood forced upon you would boil over and be directed at that man. Yet, instead… with the Earl… you were… forgiving, hopeful even."

"The Earl didn't abandon his child, Laura," he reasoned. "He lost his son then spent a lifetime hoping to find him. A situation such as that is not deserving of ire, but of forgiveness." He turned to look at her. "Wouldn't you agree?" Warm brown eyes met his, and she caressed his chin with a thumb.

"I know I don't say it often," she admitted, "But you, Mr. Steele, are a truly good man." He swallowed past the lump in his throat, then finding his footing cupped the back of her head with his hand.

"And you, Miss Holt, say the damnedest things sometimes."

He dragged her head down for a quick, hard kiss. Unexpectedly, need shot straight through her. As he gave her a questioning look, she sat up, then with a tug at his hand pulled him up into a sitting position as well. She moved to sit between his legs, her feet behind him, her knees against his sides. Mimicking the position, he cradled her head in his palm, not needing her to explain what was on her mind, as the desire simmering in her eyes said all there was to say.

"Here?" he inquired, eyes darting around the meadow where they sat. She laughed low in her throat. The man who'd once bedded nearly every bimbo that had crossed his path and who'd urged _her_ for years to set the wild, uninhibited Laura free, he could be remarkably inhibited himself at times.

"Here," she confirmed in a sultry voice, then leaned in to trail kisses along the underside of his jaw. His arms encircled her and as his hands caressed her back, he continued to assess the meadow.

"Someone might come along," he warned. It wasn't that he was a prude. He'd indulged in a few spectacularly public places in years past. But this was Laura. She was his, and he wasn't inclined to share.

"We're on Daniel's property, aren't we?" she pressed, running the tip of her tongue along the edge of his ear, then drawing the lobe into her mouth. His hands flexed against her back, the quiescent need he had for the woman which always burned low in his stomach roaring into flames that threatened to scorch.

"One of the very people who might come upon us unexpectedly." She smiled against his neck, for even as he continued to voice his concerns, his nimble fingers were releasing the buttons of her blouse.

"Well, I guess that would be proof enough to lay his claim to rest, once and for all," she mumbled against his skin, heating it with both mouth and breath. He tugged her shirt free of her riding breeches, suddenly desperate to feel her flesh beneath his hands. He released a staccato breath when he cupped the small globe of a bra clad breast in his palm. _Not enough. Not enough by half._ He thanked the stars above when he saw the front clasp of her bra. Releasing it, he brushed aside the fabric.

"Claims?" he managed, his ability to communicate coherently rapidly departing.

"That… you'd… disappear…" She peppered jaw, chin and cheek with soft kisses, as her fingers worked diligently to bare some flesh for their own pleasure "…into the… misty …night… once your… curiosity… was satisfied." She gasped when a sure thumb crossed over the peak of a breast, then grunted unhappily when his hand stilled.

"No matter the cause, I'm afraid I can't live with that. Why the idea that Daniel would see your lovely—" His thoughts, as well as his ability to think, ground to a halt when a small hand caressed his burgeoning erection through his breeches. _Bugger it all._ What little will he had evaporated at her touch. All he had left in him was a quick prayer that they not be discovered.

"Remington." She tugged his polo over his head, tasting the skin at the crook of his neck while he shook free of it.

"Hmm?" he managed to answer, tugging her free of blouse and bra.

"Shut up and kiss me," she ordered.

"If you insist."

Capturing her lips beneath his, the only words spoken for a long while were soft murmurs of delight and quiet mumbles of appreciation.

* * *

In the midst of their lovemaking, Remington had turned the tables on her, as he was sometimes prone towards doing. Laura would allow him some leeway, seeing where he desired to take things, and there was an equal chance she'd steer him back to her way of thinking. Today, she'd been in the mood for a quick shag – all heat, passion… a hard, fast race to the finish line. He, on the other hand was inclined towards making love – slowly, thoroughly. She'd been prepared to use hands, mouth, words to sway him to her side, until she'd seen the quiet yet turmoiled look in his eyes that said he needed to show her what he still struggled mightily to say with words on most days. She'd turned herself fully over to him then, and, as was his way when in a mood such as this, he'd taken her to climax – once by mouth, and twice while his body moved within hers – before he'd allowed himself to enjoy his own.

Absently, she stroked her fingers up and down the arm wrapped around her. When she'd tried to doze, he'd tugged her upwards. After helping her back into panties and bra, he'd eased her shirt back over her shoulders, while she suppressed the urge to laugh. They'd just wantonly made love in an open field, but in the aftermath he was again determined to protect their privacy. After he'd pulled on his briefs then breeches, he'd sat on the blanket them had drawn her down to sit between his legs.

"Donald surprised Frances with a week-long Mediterranean cruise in celebration of their fifteenth anniversary next month," she shared. He stirred at the news, thinking it might be the opening he'd been searching for.

"A June bride, hmmmm?" She barked a single, low laugh.

"Would Frances be anything other than the traditional June bride?" she challenged.

"I imagine Abigail rather insisted upon it," he mused. And by virtue of that, Laura would consider a June wedding of her own out of the question.

"She didn't need to. Believe me," she cut the air with a flattened palm, "There was absolutely no way Frances was going to be anything _but_ a June bride. She'd been planning her wedding since she was ten-years-old. The month, the dress, the number of attendants, the Church – none of it was negotiable."

"A large wedding, was it?"

"Sixteen attendants, five-hundred guests and the cost of a new car later, she had the wedding of her dreams." Her tone made it clear that she disapproved of the ostentation.

"Had you? Been planning your wedding since childhood as well?" The questions drew another laugh from her.

"Much to my mother's dismay, not at all." She peeked back over her shoulder at him. "Sports, dance, piano. That's all I was interested in."

"Have you since?" he pressed on. The fingers on his armed stilled.

"Why the sudden interest in weddings, Mr. Steele?" she dodged. The memory of her spontaneous proposal and his refusal was still fresh enough that she felt the sting of rejection even now. Feeling her tense against him, he briskly rubbed her stomach with the fingertips of the hand lying there.

"Merely making conversation," he assured, then interjected a light note into his voice as he nudged her back around, "Although you know how much I enjoy it when you share these little tidbits about yourself, as you so rarely do."

She considered refusing. After all, if she asked the same of him, she'd be given some trite answer along the lines of 'Never thought about it a'tall. The only thought I've ever given to marriage is how to avoid finding myself in those particular shackles'. For a man who avoided commitment at all costs, he remained fast and true to the vow to remain unencumbered, that keen devotion reflected by the situation they currently found themselves in: Him, deported and her taking on all the responsibilities for the Agency, finding herself framed by that louse Keyes and traveling the globe in what could well be a vain hope of maintaining the fragile bonds that held them together. Here he was, living in the lap of luxury – back with Daniel no less – spending far more time with the Earl than he had revealed and making plans for a project that would require his presence in London a year from—

"Lau-ra." Her name, the way he'd drawn it out, drew her from her thoughts.

"Exactly how much time have you been spending with the Earl?" she asked, voice pitched higher than normal. The question, coming out of nowhere as it had – and not at all in answer to the matter on the table, had him directing a queer look on the back of her head.

"Given our efforts with Haven House, a bit of time. Why do you ask?" She stroked her throat with her fingers, and pursed her lips in thought.

"You were very… comfortable… in his kitchen last night," she observed.

"Yes, yes," he confirmed, a bit impatiently, "We both enjoy cooking and have discussed a great deal of business over meal preparations."

"He's very fond of you."

"And I like him… a great deal," he replied, frustration mounting. "Laura, I—"

"You've never mentioned a second phase in a 'year or so' from now." _Ahhhh, so that's what gotten into her._

"Something neither he nor I are sure will come to fruition, although we'd both like it to, yes."

"A year from now, Mr. Steele," she accused.

"Yes, yes, a year from now. And should that time arrive, I was hoping I might convince you to shut down the Agency for a couple of weeks so that we might return and get the project off on the right foot," he explained. She relaxed slightly in his arms.

"Return?" He shook his head behind her. For a woman as intelligent, independent and competent as she, the woman also stricken with a confounding streak of insecurity a mile wide.

"Yes, Lau-ra, _return_ ," he replied with some exasperation. "Isn't that the point of this entire exercise? Waiting out the INS until they allow me to reclaim my life?"

"One could argue you're claiming a life of your own, right here," she argued, still unsatisfied. "A beautiful house, a job that you're _really_ enjoying, establishing networks with—"

"Daniel's home, Lau-ra, not my flat – which I might remind you, I've spent a good deal of time and effort making my own these last years," he admonished, "A short-term project, not a job, and what some might call a… friendship, but certainly not networking." He blew out a puff of breath, collecting himself, then drew her closer against his body. "The only way I'm not coming home, Laura, is if the INS prevents me from doing so, and should that come to pass, I've every intention of convincing _you_ it's time to open an international office of Remington Steele Investigations." Her own worries were shoved aside as his own came to light.

"Do you honestly believe the INS might block you?" she wondered.

"The only person into whose hands I have willing placed my fate in are you own, Laura," he reasoned. "Now one of the United State government's capricious bureaucracies has that very fate at their mercy and could decide on nothing more than a whim to take away everything I've fought to have. Do I believe that could happen? Yes. Does that thought scare the bloody hell out of me? It does."

"That's not going to happen," she said with some confidence.

"You don't know that, and neither do I," he refuted. "We'll only know for certain when I step off a plane in LA or never board one to begin with."

"That's _not_ going to happen," she repeated, more firmly.

"From your lips, Laura, from your lips."

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the geese as they played on the water, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Her hand had resumed stroking his arm, absently mulling all that had been said.

"A weekday, early afternoon, when everyone else is at work. In a church before a minister," her voice broke the quiet. She felt him stir behind her. "Two witnesses, no other guests, and the bride would give herself away."

"Practical to the bitter end, eh?" he chuckled warmly.

"It has nothing to do with practicality, Mr. Steele, although I won't deny I don't understand spending a small fortune on a wedding when there's no need. I have no desire to be anyone's entertainment or to be the center of attention. _If_ I get married one day, then it's the vows, the marriage that really matter, isn't it? Not all the pomp and circumstance," she vented, as though she'd rehearsed this argument dozens of times. _For her Mother, perhaps?_ he wondered. "Small. Intimate. That's all I want."

Hours later, she would still be unsure why it was he'd kissed her… let alone, so vigorously.


	35. Chapter 35: Olive Branch

Chapter 35: Olive Branch

Clipping a barrette into her hair and leaving the back hanging long, Laura dropped her brush on the bathroom counter, then turned to Remington who was focused on a quick shave. She took a minute to admire his slim form draped in only a towel. The days of holding the man at bay long ago past, she now wondered how she had managed to keep him at arm's length all those years.

"I saw that." Her eyes snapped upwards.

"Saw what?" she feigned innocence.

"The look."

"What look? There was no look," she denied. He raised a pair of knowing brows at her in the mirror.

"The look that says you wish to have me for dinner," he grinned at her.

 _Smug bastard._

That smile reminded her of one of the reasons she'd been so determined to hold him off. He'd known from the start, despite her declarations otherwise, that she wanted him as much as he did her and was intent on reminding her of that as often as he could. To give in would have meant he'd won, and some of the control she'd fought constantly for would have been forever lost.

"I'll be downstairs. Find me when you're ready to go."

"Do you have a specific destination in mind?" he asked, tapping his razor against the sink. She looked over her shoulder at him and smirked.

"You're a detective, figure it out."

His low chuckle followed her from the room.

She knew exactly where she was going, her final comment to Remington meant to do nothing more than prick him… which, of course, hadn't worked. He allowed very little to get under his skin, which was, perhaps, one of the reasons they balanced one another so well. She recognized she could be prickly, priggish and even outright temperamental at times. His natural ability to deflect such moods, even find humor in them, allowed her to both vent freely and prevented them from having explosive encounters like that at the Spa or in Cannes on a regular basis.

Then again, an argument could be made if they 'had it out' more often, those venomous explosions in which they pummeled each other with all the grievances they'd held inside may have never happened at all. It was certainly food for thought.

In the conservatory, she lifted the fallboard on the Steinway and reverently played a few notes, listening to the rich sound emanating from the piano. Almost reverently, she smoothed her hands over her skirt as she sat the bench. Fingers hovering over the keys, she closed her eyes and waited until inspiration arrived. As her fingers danced over the keys, the soothing notes of Grieg's _Peace of the Woods_ filled the room. She lost herself in the tranquil melody, the richness of the sound emanating from the instrument.

In the salon, where Tilly was dusting, her hand stilled. Straightening, she closed her eyes, and let the music wash over her. She startled when Milton stepped behind her and, clasping her upper arms his hands, rested his chin on her shoulder.

"It's as though the missus has returned to play for us." He spoke quietly so as not to compete with the music. Tilly leaned into him.

"It is," she agreed in a voice echoing the softness of her husband's.

As the last notes of _Peace of the Woods_ hung in the air, Laura easily segued into Liszt's _Harmonies du soir_ , the melody more passionate than the last.

As Remington left their room upstairs, a smile lit his face. Laura was certainly making it easy for him to find her, for there was only one person in the household capable of the performance being given. At the bottom of the stairs, he found Daniel standing just outside of the conservatory listening.

"Daniel! Tildy said you'd be out."

"Not for a couple hours yet," he replied, keeping his voice low. He nodded towards the library. "You never mentioned Linda—" At Remington's drawn brows, he corrected himself, "…Laura, had been classically trained."

"She wasn't," Remington corrected. "Despite her… snobbery, wasn't it?... Laura's family didn't have the funds for such. She was taught by her grandmother and has mastered the piano quite on her own. There's a great deal more to Laura than you believe Daniel."

"So I am beginning to see," he acknowledged, as Laura turned to Tchaikovsky's _October._ He smiled at his protégé. "And, of course, I'm already well-aware she is a skilled dance partner." Remington reared back his head and looked down at the older man, while raising a single brow.

"And how, might I ask, are you aware of that?"

"She and I once enjoyed a waltz in your flat," laughter rumbled low in his throat, "Whilst she attempted to elicit information from me about you and warned me off her mother." Remington's warm laughter joined Daniel's.

"That certainly sounds like Laura. I've been taken to task any number of times while we dance," he commiserated. His eyes alighted upon Laura's back, and the warm glow of pride was unmistakable. Daniel's laugh ground to a halt, and he studied the man he'd long considered a son.

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" Daniel worried. "Talented though the woman may be, are you truly prepared to tie yourself for eternity to a woman as demanding and unyielding as she?" The corner of Remington's mouth quirked upwards.

"Not only prepared to, but intend to, no matter how long it might take to convince her," he confirmed.

"But Harry—" Remington lay a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"She's all I want, Daniel," he interrupted quietly, "And it would make my life a great deal easier if the two people who mean the most to me in this world would somehow find their peace with one another." With that said, he patted Daniel's shoulder and stepped into the conservatory. Crossing the room, to where Laura played, he stood where he would be in her eyeline. The music came to an end, and her fingers hovered over the keys as she looked up at him expectantly. "Honestly, Laura, it's positively insulting." Her brows furrowed at him.

"Exactly what is 'it'?" she questioned with a tilt of her head.

"You challenge me to use my detective skills to find you, then leave me a singular clue that even Leo Blitzman could have followed blindfolded," he sniffed with indignation.

"I _never_ challenged you. I stated a fact: you _are_ a detective," she grinned, dancing around the accusation, "Then _merely_ _suggested_ you find me." He pursed his lips, while amusement danced in his eyes, not buying it for a second.

"Shall we?" he indicated the general direction of the front of the house with a tilt of his head.

"Actually, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind going to the market yourself." She gave a pointed look to the piano, a convenient excuse and one she hoped he'd take at face value. It was to her favor that unlike her with him, he rarely questioned whether her motives were genuine or not.

"Wish to tickle the old ivories a little longer, eh?" he teased. "Are you in the mood for anything particular this evening?" She stood and moving to him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Something Italian," she suggested. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she drew a single finger down his chest. "And maybe some type of decadent dessert will inspire a little tickling of another kind." The quiet desire in her eyes, inspired him to pull her closer.

"Is that so?" he hummed with a lift and a drop of his brows.

"Mmm hmmm," she confirmed with a hum of her own, in the instant before he dropped his head and caressed her lips with his.

"I shouldn't be but an hour," he informed her when their lips parted. He patted her on the fanny a couple of times. "Don't lose that mood."

"Oh, I won't," she assured him.

With a brush of his lips against her cheek, she watched him depart, then returned to the piano. Soon the notes of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_ were heard throughout the house, but Laura paid little heed to the tune her fingers were producing, her mind on the conversation she'd overheard between Daniel and Remington when they believed she'd been elsewise occupied.

Her time in London was running short, and so too was the time she had left to give Remington what he needed perhaps more than anything – outside of knowing his name and where he'd come from, of course. She'd move heaven and earth if she could give him the latter, but the private detective in her recognized the clues were far too scant and that might never become a reality. But the former, with a little reasoning and likely a healthy dose of pride sacrificed, she possibly could.

She'd be operating on faith, something she hadn't done much of in years past when it came to Remington. On nothing but his word, she was trusting that he'd made his choice: The life he'd forged for himself in LA over his past.

 _His life with her._

With a decisive nod, she stopped playing abruptly and stood. Wiping suddenly damp palms against her skirt, she took a deep breath and found her backbone. Resolved she went in search of Daniel. She found him on the terrace in the most relaxed pose she'd ever witnessed him in: Sitting in a chair at an umbrella covered table, he had his feet propped on a second chair and a glass of iced tea in hand.

"Linda! I thought you and Harry were headed to the market," he commented. As had been the case since first they met, she ignored his intentional misuse of her name, recognizing it for what it was: His attempts to make her feel her presence in Remington's life was fleeting, at best, and soon she would be just another name he'd forgotten.

"Mr.-," she stopped, and in her second attempt at offering an olive branch to the man, tried again. "Harry is on the way to the market as we speak. Would you care to take a walk?" she indicated the back gardens with a hand. He was too much of a gentleman to decline the request.

"Of course," he agreed, standing and offering her an elbow. With some reluctance, she laid her hand in the crook.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, uneasy in one another's company without Remington there to act as a buffer. Time alone, historically, meant confrontation as they battled it out for the man who'd once been the child no one had wanted and neither of them were ignorant of that fact.

"I think we can both agree we want Rem-… Harry to be happy," she dared to venture. He took several seconds to carefully choose his words.

"Harry is like the son I never had and like any father, I only want what's best for the boy," he replied, carefully, keeping in mind Remington's earlier words to him. He should have known she'd see right through them. Dropping her hand from his arm, she crossed her arms in front of herself and tipped up her chin.

"And you don't believe what's best for him is either myself or the life he's made for himself in Los Angeles," she surmised, unable to prevent the sharp note to her tone. His face grew drawn, made him appeared haggard.

"Not too many years ago, I watched a mere infatuation take the boy to his knees—"

"You mean Anna," she interjected. He slowly nodded his head. "Anna and I are _nothing_ alike," she declared, cutting a hand through the air in front of herself with finality.

"You're right, of course," he agreed, far too easily – enough so it made her eyes narrow in suspicion. "Anna was part of the life. Harry may have grown to care for her, but he knew the realities of this life of ours: Rely on nothing someone says. Words are used to pacify, to convince, to—"

"Get whatever it is you're after by providing a sense of trust, faith, that never truly exists," she finished for him. Her assessment was met with another nod of his head, and accompanied with a hum of confirmation.

"And even in knowing her words were meaningless, that she was part of the life just as he was, he came to trust her," he continued. "She used that trust to manipulate him to do her bidding, and when she died he blamed himself. The whole episode convinced him what all those who'd abandoned him in his childhood had told him straight along: He was unworthy of having what he truly wished for: someone to whom he belonged. He was tormented for years by her passing, had only truly found his footing once again when he arrived in your fair city."

"I met Anna, you know." His head snapped in her direction, and he stared at her astounded.

"You did? But how?" he couldn't help asking. Granted, he held by the idiom the world was a small one, but Anna had been dead for some years, and Laura was neither a frequent world travel nor likely to mix with their kind.

"He didn't tell you," she noted in awe. He continued to stare at her, wordlessly. "Anna's _not_ dead. She appeared in Los Angeles…" her brow furrowed, "…A little over two years ago now, as a woman named Lydia Van Owen, engaged to Walter Patton—"

" _The_ Walter Patton?" he interrupted to inquire.

"If you mean the billionaire Walter Patton, that's the one," she confirmed. "Only Anna was already married, to a man named Raymond Merleau—"

"Merleau!" he exclaimed, cutting her off again. His response drew a curious look from her.

"You know of him?" This time it was she who was stunned.

"An unscrupulous, amoral, _dangerous_ man who'd kill to get whatever it is he desires," Daniel assessed, as they began walking again. "Harry never told me Anna was married," he ruminated.

"Because he didn't know until she arrived alive and well in Los Angeles," she explained. "Anna faked her death so she and Merleau could collect on an insurance policy."

"Then how was she to marry this Patton fellow? So far as I know, your fair country frowns upon bigamy, much the same as England." She gave him a grim look.

"By arranging for Harry to run into her _accidentally,_ then convincing him Merleau was threatening her well-being." She rubbed briskly at her arms, the memories of those harrowing days giving her chills despite the moderate weather and warmth of the sun. "She nearly convinced him to commit murder for her."

"Harry would never do such a thing. Why the boy hates the very thought of—" His defense of Remington fizzled when he saw the pained look upon Laura's face. "Tell me he didn't—"

"No, he didn't," she assured quietly. "But he came close. She took everything good and kind inside of him and twisted it until she'd nearly convinced him Merleau's death by his hand was the only way to keep her safe." Daniel's temper exploded, something she'd never been witness to before, his face contorting in his fury, and a deep red infusing his skin.

"Should I ever get my hands on the woman, I'll wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze the very life from her!" he vowed.

"I know the feeling," she commiserated, "But there's no need. She'll be in prison for a very long time. She killed Merleau in cold blood and would have killed Harry had I not been there to knock the gun off course." She watched, as within the space of a few breaths, he calmed and that normally placid façade fell over him.

"My apologies for my outburst, my dear," he apologized in the refined tones for which he was known. "Why in heaven's name didn't Harry tell me of this?" She lifted a shoulder and shook her head.

"Embarrassed that she'd manage to con him, of all people?" she suggested. "Ashamed that he'd come so close to using violence he knows you'd frown upon? Your approval means a great deal to him."

"Perhaps," he considered. A minute ticked by as they walked along in silence, he pondering what she'd shared, she wondering how to bring the conversation back on track. She finally decided just to go for it.

"I'm not Anna, Daniel," she offered again, quietly. He sighed heavily.

"You're a lovely young woman, Laura, and under normal circumstances I'd say Harry was lucky to have you." She turned her head to look at him, her frustration evident in the furrowing of her brow.

"It all comes back to me taking him away from 'the life'," she accused.

"That's merely an annoyance," he replied with some of his normal humor in his voice. She threw her hands up in the air.

"Then what's the problem?!" she demanded to know. "I may have kept you from dragging Mr. Steele into your gambits, but I have _never_ interfered in his personal relationship with you. I know how important you are to him and I would _never_ make him choose between you and me," she protested.

"If you asked such a thing of him, he'd merely pretend to go along," he pointed out, calmly. He lay a pair of suddenly somber eyes upon her. "No, it has nothing to do with feeling threatened or even your irritating habit of clinging to your virtues. If anything, I've enjoyed our little competition in that regard."

"Then what is it!?" she demanded to know, again.

"My dear, because he never fully trusted her, Anna could do no more than bring him to his knees, as she did." Daniel stopped walking and turned to her, a hardness in his eyes she'd never seen before. Two firsts in such short succession, and still she was in no way prepared for what came next. "You, I fear will either leave Harry an irretrievably broken man or send him to an early grave…"


	36. Chapter 36: Different Truths

Chapter 36: Different Truths

Laura stood frozen in place, positively shellshocked by the words Daniel had spoken. She stared at him, her only movement the occasional blink of an eye. She and Daniel had had more than their share of differences over the years, but not once had he sunk to the level of saying she was an endangerment to Remington's welfare or life. Long seconds ticked by as first the keen razor's edge of injury pierced her gut, then was quickly followed by deep affront. It was the latter that drew her up to her full height as she lifted and dropped her hands. Through sheer will alone she forced her eyes to meet his.

"I don't even know what to say," she returned, forcing a calm to her voice that was the antithesis of her rioting emotions. Crossing her arms in front of herself, protectively, she slowly paced. "When Mr. Steele appeared in my life, it was to steal the very jewels my Agency had been hired to protect while stealing the identity of the fictitious owner of the Agency. Despite that, when he chose to stay in LA, I entrusted him with everything I had: My Agency, my livelihood, _and_ my professional reputation for no other reason than I saw something in him that he often didn't see in himself. I put my _entire_ life on the line and still do _every day_ , yet for you to believe what you do? I knew we'd never see eye-to-eye on many things – hell, most things - but he trusts me, and I foolishly thought that might count for something in your eyes and we could somehow find some middle ground where we could learn to co-exist peacefully _for his sake_." She gave her head a determined nod. "I see now that's not possible. If you'll excuse me."

Spinning on her heel, she took several purposeful steps towards the house when a hand gripping her upper arm brought her to a halt. Her arm froze at an angle and she completely stilled.

"At least extend to me the courtesy of explaining," he insisted. It took great strength of will to rein in her temper. Yanking her arm free of his hand, she crossed her arms protectively around herself and turned to face him, chin tipped up defiantly.

"Alright," she clipped coolly.

"Shall we?" he extended his hand towards the path they'd been previously walking. With a curt nod, she moved forward, her steps in tune with his.

"When I came to LA – what was it, about three years ago now? – I couldn't help but notice the change that had come over Harry," he began. "Gone was the anger that had simmered just under his surface during the entirety of our association, and in its place a… tranquility I never thought he'd find. So stunning was the change, I'd remarked upon it…"

* * *

 _ **"You know for someone who could never stay tied to one place or *one* of anything for very long, you sound almost domesticated."**_

 _ **"Does that sadden you Daniel?"**_

 _ **"It intrigues me."**_

* * *

"And intrigue me it did, although it was quite apparent you were the cause."

"I should think that would weigh in my favor, not stand as an indictment," she huffed, indignantly.

"That anger, that rage, my dear, you could liken to a knight's armor," he explained. "It reminded him never to let anyone get too close, to never allow anything to mean too much. A necessity in this life of ours should you wish to survive."

"It would seem since he's left the life, that is now a moot point," she pointed out, coolly. Daniel laughed a low, sardonic laugh.

"One might choose to leave the life, but that doesn't mean they've been forgotten," he refuted. "Harry possesses a unique set of skills that once were in high demand. Should his current identity be discovered – which would not be all that difficult given the publicity your Remington Steele has received over the years – and someone wish him to secure a pricey bauble or masterpiece for them, they'll have no compunction at using you or his life in LA as leverage." Anger forgotten for a moment, her memory immediately seized on Felicia's use of blackmail to guarantee Remington would assist her in heisting _The Five Nudes of Cairo_.

"It's happened before, and we handled it together," she answered reasonably. "And should it happen again, we'll do the same." Her voice took on a determined note. "Look, it's taken a long time for me to admit Reming-… Harry is not the only person with a past that can come calling at any time. I have helped put away any number of people under the guise of Remington Steele that have and still might come looking for revenge. As much as we'd both like to change that, we can't."

"Ah, but regardless of whose past comes calling it is Harry who pays the price, is it not?" he suggested.

"That's not true!" she exclaimed with indignation. He feigned an apologetic look.

"Perhaps I misread his doldrums, then, in those months after he'd aided in freeing Henri and Joelle from the threats of the Palermo brothers." Her flinch wouldn't have been noticed by nearly anyone else, but Daniel was as gifted as Remington at reading people. Without a word to her reaction, he continued on. "Then there was the chap who'd framed him for murder and… what was it?..." he screwed up his face as though in thought "…intended him to find his death in a vat of acid, I believe." Laura averted her head and scrunched her face, unseen, while lifting a hand to knead her brow. _For a man allergic to discussing his past, he's certainly damned chatty about his present_. "Then there was the matter of his appearance here in London last year-" Her had snapped back around and she openly glared at him.

"Hoskins? Nanny Perkins?" she bit out. "It seems I'm not alone in my transgressions."

"Anomalies," he dismissed. "I can count on one hand how many times his life was in peril prior to taking on the role of your Remington Steele, and therein lays my concern."

"There are different forms of peril, Daniel," she retorted. "Take spending the entirety of your life looking over your shoulder wondering when any number of policing agencies are going to catch up to you and you'll find yourself spending a good portion of your life behind bars. Do you honestly believe he could survive that? Granted our line of work can be dangerous at times, but at least he's free."

"Free to be your intrepid detective," he commented, with a lift of his brows.

"I _never_ asked him to forgo his pursuit of the Royal Lavulite. I _never_ asked him to return to LA from San Francisco. I _never_ asked him to assume the role," she insisted, vehemently. "Becoming Remington Steele was _his choice_ , I merely made it possible."

"And when you decide that role should come to an end, what's to come of Harry?" he dared to question, earning another toss of her hands into the air.

"Why would I _do_ that?" she demanded.

"It's not as though it's not happened before," he reminded.

"Did I have questions about our personal relationship and its ability to succeed? _Yes,_ I did. He'd lied to me, manipulated me, he'd placed the Agency and my livelihood at risk. How could I _not_ have questions?" It was the point he'd been steering the conversation towards.

"And when he does it the next time?" he posed. "What then?

"I'm not naïve, Mr. Chalmers," Laura responded tightly. "Remington may be walking the straight and narrow in his eyes, but I know that path will always be filled with detours and zigs and zags. His first instinct may always be to run when he faces adversity, to do an end route around me when he believes I'll disapprove of whatever it is he has in mind. How could it not be, when it's not only what he's been taught, but how he's lived for more than half his life? The fact that he's here, dealing with his immigration issues in the right way when I was the one who suggested subverting the ridiculous decision of the INS speaks volumes for how hard he is trying to resist his natural inclinations. Will he slip and blindside me again as he's done in the past? I'm sure he will," she confirmed, ruefully. "Still, if there's one thing I've learned it's that if I want him to be in my life – and I do – then I'll have to live with his shortcomings, just as he'll have to live with mine. It hasn't been an easy road for _either of us_ to get to this point in our personal relationship. We each have our faults, we both have our demons. But I think our failings, everything we've had to overcome, is a testament to how badly we want this. For that matter, the mere fact that I came to you hoping we might find a truce _for his sake_ should speak volumes about my commitment to him and making our relationship work." She blew out a breath after her lengthy soliloquy. "A little faith, a truce, for Harry's peace of mind," she concluded softly.

"I assure you, my dear, there is not a person living who means more to me than Harry." Laura nodded her head and lay a light hand against his upper arm.

"Just think about it, that's all I ask," she requested quietly. "There was a time he enjoyed being the focus of our antipathy, but he's weary of being at the center of a tug-of-war."

With a pat against his arm, she turned and walked away, leaving him to brood on all that had been said.

* * *

When Remington walked through the front door of the house, two bags of groceries in hand, he was greeted by the sounds of Liszt's _Sonata in B Minor_. A wide smile lighting his face, he turned in the direction of the Conservatory. Truth be told, he'd been more than a little worried about leaving Laura and Daniel alone given their long, contentious relationship. He'd been fully prepared to return to Laura in a temper and Daniel off somewhere either gloating or brooding, although much more likely the former. While he'd never say so much to her as it would surely prick both her pride and temper, Daniel often came out on top after their quarrels as the conman easily identified her insecurities and played on them. With precious little time left before she returned to LA, he didn't wish to spend the time soothing her, providing reassurances… after all, he had his own agenda to play out.

He waited until she finished the piece then leaned down and bussed her on top of the head, before moving into her line of sight.

"Been playing all this time?" he wondered. Laura looked up and gave a miniscule shake of her head.

"No, I took a walk." No need to share with him the details, in her eyes. She eyed the bags in his hand. "What did you decide on?"

"A spicy Italian salad followed by Chicken Marsala accompanied orzo with wilted spinach and pine nuts," he rattled off as though the meal required as little work as dropping a Pop-Tart into a toaster. Her mouth instantly watered.

"Dare I ask about dessert?" He raised a brow at her.

"Would I forget what you deem the main course? A white chocolate panna cotta with stewed strawberries," he confirmed. Forget her mouth watering, she was positively salivating now.

"Sounds heavenly," she sighed, drawing a warm laugh from him.

"Care to keep me company?" Dropping the fallboard over the keys, she stood.

"Of course."

* * *

Dinner had been a magnificent affair. Served once again on the terrace with candles lit upon the table, they'd enjoyed quiet conversation. By the time they'd finished dessert, Laura's appetite had been more than sated and with her stomach filled with the gloriously rich and tasty fare – not to mention a fair serving of wine – she was bordering on drowsy. Amusement twinkled in Remington's eyes when he recognized her state, and standing he dragged her upwards into his arms to dance. Arms draped loosely over his hips, hands clasped behind his back, she rested her head beneath his shoulder as they swayed.

He embraced her a bit more snugly and pressing his cheek against the top of her head, breathed in her scent, committing it again to memory to sustain him for the upcoming weeks.

"Laura?"

"Hmmm?" she answered, head never leaving his chest.

"I've been thinking—"

"Often a dangerous act where you're concerned," she quipped. She felt more so than heard his brief chuckle.

"While I was at the market," he began again "I realized this little project of the Earl's will be complete before you next return…"

"Yes," she confirmed.

"And it occurred to me we've never gone on holiday together," he continued. "Made plans to, yes. Certainly we've traveled together. But the nearest we've come to a holiday," he swallowed hard, hoping he wasn't about to take this conversation in an unintended direction, "Was your Glee Club tour, and I don't believe… given the, um, circumstances… that either of us would consider it to have been a holiday." She leaned back to peer up at him, eyes narrowed, studying his face.

"I think you're right," she cautiously agreed.

"I was thinking we might rectify that on your next trip," he suggested. She tilted her head slightly and her brows furrowed.

"Do you really think that's wise right now? Your passport isn't exactly _legal,_ " she drew out the word.

"What I've in mind would keep us in Europe, and need I remind you I traveled for years on five not-so-legal passports?"

"Don't remind me," she muttered under her breath. "What exactly is it that you have in mind?"

"A few days in Rome, followed by the same in Venice." Her eyes lit up and a quiet thrill passed through her at the notion.

"Italy? You want to go to Italy?"

"Imagine it, Laura," he told her, his enthusiasm with the idea growing with each passing moment, "While in Rome, strollig the Villa Borghese followed by a picnic lunch at Pincio Gardens. Visits to the Pantheon, the Coliseum, Sistine Chapel and Piazza del Campidoglio. Tossing a coin into the Trevi Fountain in the evening," he waggled his brows at her, "Perhaps sharing a bit of romance there." She tapped a finger against her chin.

"Why do I have a feeling we'd be doing Rome ala _Roman Holiday?"_ He bestowed a crooked grin upon her.

"Well, you know what they say: When in Rome..." With a laugh she lifted her eyes heavenward and shook her head.

"And what movie would we be revisiting in Venice, exactly?"

"Audrey in Rome, so Katharine in Venice, of course." Brows furrowing she searched her memory for a any reference, giving up with a lift and drop of her hand.

"I have no idea," she conceded.

" _Summertime_ , Katharine Hepburn, Rossario Brazzi, United Artists, 1955," he provided, then expounded, "Wonderful movie, outstanding direction and a positively evocative music score. Hepburn plays a middle-aged woman from Ohio who at last takes her dream trip to Venice where she is courted by—"

"I get the picture," she held up a hand stopping him. "Venice… Do you intend to serenade me as we travel the canals in a gondola?"

"Only if you wish to hear dogs howling all across the city," he retorted.

"I've heard you sing before, your voice is nice," she protested.

"Decent enough for a little ditty, perhaps, but not to woo," he brushed off.

"Woo?" She slapped a hand over her mouth when an actual giggle emerged from it, so amused was she by his word choice. It took her a moment to force it back, then she mused aloud, "Rome and Venice." The idea was titillating, but then she deflated. "No matter how tempting it is, I don't know if now is the best time. The Agency will be closed a good deal over the next several months, and there are still bills to pay, not to mention Mildred's salary. Then there are the costs of—" He hugged her as they continued to dance, laughing softly.

"Lau-ra," he murmured, "I've put a bit back over the years. Let's live a little, eh?" She tilted her head back to study his face, and found earnest hope in his eyes. Slowly, she nodded her head.

"Alright," she drew out the word. "Rome and Venice it is."

As their feet continued to move, he cupped the back of her head and drew her lips to his for a long kiss.


	37. Chapter 37: Final Days

Chapter 37: Final Days

 _Remington's hand holding hers, he guided Laura to the left wall of the portico of Santa Maria in Cosmedin Church. She gazed questioningly at the marble mask standing against the wall, finding the piece of art somewhat garish… and creepy… not at all in keeping with the Old Masters or more romantic pastels of Monet or the stunning beauty of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, where they had visited not long before._

" _La Bocca della Verità, or 'The Mouth of Truth,'" he explained. "The legend is that if you've told a lie, when you put your hand in there…" he indicated the gaping mouth "...It will be bitten off." Her lips pursed with amusement._

" _That's ridiculous," she laughed. "It's nothing more than a piece of stone."_

" _Mmmm," he hummed, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "This… stone… was once used by cattle merchants to drain the blood of cattle sacrificed to Hercules and has taken on mythological powers over the centuries." She rolled her eyes at him. "As history tells it, any number of people have found their fingers severed when the lie told was too severe."_

" _Uh-huh," she replied, disbelievingly."_

" _If you're so certain you're correct, go ahead, give it a try," he challenged._

 _She eyed him at length, then tentatively reached her hand toward to breech in the marble and almost instantly pulled it back._

" _It's your legend. You do it.," she insisted, the dare clear in her eyes. He gave her a wary look, but when her lips quirked upwards in a smirk that clearly implied he was afraid to put his money where his mouth was, what choice did he have. Feigning insult, he straightened slightly, a rebellious look upon his face._

" _Alright, I will." Reaching outwards, his hand stilled when she spoke._

" _Of course, given the number of lies you've told me alone…" she teased. He frowned at her, then defiantly shoved his hand into the orifice…_

 _Then was suddenly yanked forward as he screamed…_

* * *

Laura's eyes blinked open, and with a groan, she rolled to her back and flung an arm over her eyes.

"Mornin', love," Remington greeted with a bemused note in his voice. Lifting her arm, she peeked out from beneath it, barely noting the endearment which normally suffused her skin with a blush when she heard it. She dropped her arm back down over her eyes.

"It's finally happened," she groused. He frowned at her as he sat down next to her on the bed, resting the tray he'd been carrying near her feet.

"Oh? What is that has finally happened?" She removed her arm from over her eyes and scowled at him.

"You," she accused. "You and your movies invading my dreams. _Roman Holiday_ my—"

"Lau-ra," he cut her off before she finished the thought, the smile on his face not the least bit apologetic. "Dreaming of Rome, were you?"

"Not Rome," she retorted, still glaring at him, " _Roman Holiday."_

"I can't imagine why dreaming of a whimsical romance would put you in a foul mood." His bright smile grated. He knew exactly why she was irritable and he knew she knew he knew. She might well have dressed him down soundly or wrung his neck, had she not suddenly caught whiff of a crisis averting scent in the air.

"Coffee? You brought me coffee?" She pushed herself up in bed, her eyes only then landing on the tray by her feet. Lifting the coffee mug from the tray, he handed it to her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the aroma before taking a sip.

"So, tell me, were you Audrey to my Gregory?" he pressed, unable to resist the urge to tweak her further. She wasn't picking up the gauntlet.

"Breakfast, too?" She leaned forward to peer at the tray.

"We've a day of it," he reminded her, standing to walk to the other side of the bed, and taking a seat next to her. "A tour of London, a spot of lunch in the afternoon, then this evening dinner followed by your choice of dancing or perhaps an impromptu trip to the theater." Her sudden sigh drew his eyes.

"Tomorrow's my last day here, and I feel like time's already gone by so fast."

"I know what you mean," he commiserated. "But we'll have almost the entirety of tomorrow to ourselves once I meet with the contractor and update him on the changes we've made."

"Yes, we do have that." She slanted her eyes in his direction as she took a bite of her scrambled eggs – eggs scrambled soft just as she preferred. She had to hand it to him: He never forgot a single detail when it came to her food preferences. "So, where are we going today?"

"Wherever the mood takes us," he answered vaguely. She lifted her eyes heavenward, then took another bite of her eggs.

"And what kind of mood are we in, exactly?"

"My mood is perfectly fine, thank you for asking, although your own seems undecided." With a puff of breath she acknowledged he'd no intention of sharing whatever he might have up his sleeve. Taking a final bite of her eggs, she moved the breakfast tray off her lap and grabbing her cup of coffee, stood. After quickly taking in his navy polo and khakis she determined her wardrobe for the day.

"Well, then, let's get this day started, huh?"

* * *

Their day started with a driving tour, first past Parliament and Big Ben, then through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly . By eleven, Remington had parked the car near Buckingham Palace and thirty minutes later they were amongst the throngs watching the changing of the guard. She had to admit seeing something in person that she'd only read about and seen pictures of previously was fascinating…

But, so far their tour of London had been decidedly… touristy, and she said as much.

"Impressive, eh?" he asked, as they walked hand-in-hand towards the car.

"Very," she agreed, then added, "And very touristy."

"I seem to recall being told," he held up a finger in emphasis, "Not so long ago..."

* * *

 _ **"I haven't exactly hit the usual tourist attractions."**_

* * *

"Compared to the serial killer and assassins, yes," she didn't deny. "But this isn't what I want…" she extended her arm towards Buckingham Palace, "I want to see the London you'd like me to remember when I get home, rather the London I can see in any tourist brochure."

"Change of mood then, eh?" he smiled, referencing their earlier conversation.

"Change of mood," she confirmed.

"Shall we then?"

* * *

A change of mood, indeed, Laura smiled to herself nearly three hours later as she stretched out on her side on the picnic blanket she and Remington had dined upon. When they'd departed Buckingham Palace, Remington had driven the car directly towards Kensington's Launceston Place. He'd earned a curious look from her when he'd parked the car in a residential area, then had drawn her from it. A hand at the small of her back, he'd led her past a row of homes, down a side street, before slight pressure on her back eased her towards her right where they passed through a small, stone archway.

The scene before her had taken her breath away. It was as though they'd suddenly been transported to a quaint English village nestled among the gently rolling hills of the English countryside. The cobblestone streets charmed. The homes whose facades were decorated with trailing vines of wisteria dazzled. The colorful doors that fronted each of the homes welcomed. It was, without a doubt, a scene worthy of one of the vintage romances to which the man beside her was drawn.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

"Kynance Mews," he shared. "An escape, of a sort, that first year after Daniel took me in. After particularly spectacular rows between he and I, I'd walk this street as I tried to clear my head…" he lifted a brow at her "…not to mention to cool my temper. A bit of tranquility in the midst of the London bustle." She didn't need to ask how he'd discovered the place for to this day it was a habit of his when he was angry or upset to walk, searching for some sort of peace. The man could walk for hours until his normally genial state was restored.

"I can understand that," she answered, quietly, giving his hand a squeeze.

"During the Blitz of World War II, much of the surrounding area was left damaged, reduced to rubble. But, by some miracle, Kynance Mews remained unscathed. I've often wondered if that is what drew me here: Even at a time of war, peace remained here," he contemplated.

"What exactly is a 'mews'?"

"These homes," he indicated either side of the street with a sweep of his hand, "Were once the stables of the wealthy, and the stable hands would be given accommodations in the flats above. They're now some of the most coveted – and expensive – home in all of London."

"I can see why," she appreciated, as they neared the end of the cobbled lane. She let out a small squeak of surprise, when he suddenly turned her and pressed her up against a vine covered wall.

"I've daydreamed a time or two, particularly last summer, of being here with you so I might do this…"

Clasping her face in his hands, he drew her lips up to his. The current that always ran between them sparked to life and with a hum, his hands left her face, and he enfolded her in his embrace. He deepened the kiss, languidly exploring her lips and mouth with his. Ending the kiss with to soft touches of his lips to hers, he stared down into a pair of kiss dazed chocolate colored eyes, and hummed his approval.

From Kynance Mews he'd driven them past Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park and Leicester Square to Lungate Hill where St. Paul's Cathedral – seat of the Bishop of London – resided at the highest point in the city. His chosen destination had earned him a querulous look, as it appeared he'd reverted back to the original course of visiting London landmarks. Casting him a part-disgruntled, part-curious look, she remained unmoving in her seat as he reached for his door and opened it.

"A church?" she questioned. Alighting from the car, he closed his doors then went round and opened hers.

"Trust me, Laura, it's a memory you'll most certainly enjoy when you return home."

They'd stood in line for some twenty-odd minutes to purchase entry tickets, that action alone saying they were there for more than a sudden need to commune with God. Inside the church, he'd urged her along, and for a man who complained incessantly about climbing the three flights of stairs to her loft, he seemed to think nothing of climbing the roughly two-hundred-and-fifty steps which had to be navigated before they'd reached the gallery located within the dome of the church. Assuming he'd dragged them all this way to admire the painted ceiling of the dome, she dutifully looked upwards, all the while grousing inwardly that it appeared the scant bit he'd revealed of himself in the mews had come at a cost: He'd retreated to safer territory.

"Come, stand here," he urged, easing her toward the area where two buttresses met.

"I can see it fine from here," she insisted, a bit testily. His lips quirked up in that irritating smile… the one that meant he knew he'd pricked her temper and was amused that he'd done so.

"Humor me, eh?" With a quiet huff, she stood where he asked, then watched, dumbstruck, as he began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" she asked, voice going up an octave with her mounting frustration. He returned to her side. A pair of fingers tipped up her chin, and he waited for the stubborn woman's eyes to meet his own.

"A little faith, Laura, that's all I ask." Then he was gone before her lips could even part to reply, her eyes following him as he moved to stand next to a similar buttress across the room from her, some hundred-and-thirty odd feet away. His eyes met hers across the distance. Insolently, she crossed her arms and tapped a foot.

"Laura," he whispered. He watched as across the room she blinked hard and visibly straightened, then spun around searching for a speaker, the source of his voice, and found nothing.

"How did you do that?" she called.

"Shhhhhh," he admonished, in a voice so low a person next to him might strain to hear. "It's The Whispering Gallery. Lovers from around the globe come here to whisper sweet nothings in one another's ears." He basked in the brightness of her smile.

"Is that what you intend to do?" she whispered back, delighted by this wondrous surprise and silently admonishing herself for having doubted him. "To whisper sweet nothings in my ear."

"As though you'd be dazzled by meaningless words," he refuted. "No, I intend to whisper sweet _somethings_ in your ear." A trill of pleasure shot through her and she bit her lower lip to stall the joyous smile that threatened to erupt on her face.

"Well, go on," she insisted.

"I love you, Laura." Under his watchful eyes, she blinked rapidly, the words so seldom spoken bringing threatening sheen of tears to her eyes.

"I love you, too," she returned, the emotion in her voice heard by him as her whisper traveled back to him.

"Tá tú mo chroí, Laura, mo ghrá amháin fíor," he murmured. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, even as a smile lifted his lips in answer to the tilt of her head, the furrow of her brow.

"What did you say?" she returned in sotto voice. "What language is that?"

"Trying for a bit of romance here, love," he scolded, mildly. "Ba mhaith liom an chuid eile de mo laethanta a chaitheamh leat, ag argóint leat, ag gáire leat, a roinnt leaba leat." he continued as she listened intently, trying to decipher the language he spoke. "Ba mhaith liom teach, teaghlach leatsa." Whatever it was he spoke, it was rich, melodious… enchanting, even. But still the question on the table remained…

"What did you say?" she asked again.

"Everything in its own time, Laura," he dodged, lifting his brows and smiling at her from across the room. He heard her huff of frustration before he strode across the room to join her, the smile never leaving his face.

"I didn't know you spoke a second language," she accused, as he laid a hand at her back and guided her towards the exit to the gallery.

"I don't believe you've ever asked," he answered, casually. He'd planned this particular trip to the Whispering Gallery before she'd arrived and had conceded to himself then that there would be questions she'd demand answers to.

"Exactly how many languages do you speak?" she persisted, crossing her arms and tipping up her chin.

"Laura, I've lived in Europe nearly the entirety of my life," he reminded. "I speak a smattering of this and that." He cast what passed as an incredulous look in her direction. "I don't know why you're so put out over this. After all, it's not as though you haven't heard me speak another language before."

"I certainly have not!" she retorted, as they began their descent down the stairs, she preceding him.

"In Acapulco," he prompted. She searched her memory as she marched down the stairs, back stiffening when it came to her.

"A half dozen words… Not a full sentence, even a singular one," she rebutted.

"Manuel!" he announced, as though it put the entire matter to rest.

"Manuel? Who's Manuel?"

"The lad that kidnapped me and delivered me to Albee Fervitz. The Ratooi Games case?"

"I know who Fervitz is," she snapped. "But you never spoke to Manuel in anything other than English, at least not in front of me." This time it was he who frowned as he replayed the memory in his head. _Oops_. No, he hadn't, at least not _directly_ in front of her.

"Mmmm. I believe you're right about that. Had you heard, you'd have frozen me out for weeks, more than likely," he mused. She looked at him over her shoulder.

"Why is that?" He flashed a crooked smile.

"If I recall, correctly," he replied, humor dancing through his voice, "He thought you quite the 'foxy lady' and advised me to… err… do something about it." No way he'd admit Manual had advised him to make her his conquest.

"And what did you say?" He stopped her descent with a hand on her shoulder, then joined her on the stair upon which she stood and faced her. She pressed her back against the wall to allow others to pass, and he closed in on her, bracing himself with an arm against the wall. A pair of intense blue eyes met her curious ones.

"I said it would be to my great pleasure, should you allow me to win your heart." She gave him a doubtful look, then her eyes slipped away.

"You wanted me in your bed," she challenged. A pair of fingers beneath her chin lifted it and he waited until her eyes met his again.

"I could easily admit to both of us that I wanted you in my bed, yes," he acknowledged. "That some part of me knew I needed _all of you_ was… petrifying… but I assure you, a part of me knew just that from the very start. Why else would I have returned and insinuated myself into your life as I did, hmmmm?" He touched his lips to hers. "And I'm so very glad that I did." She lay a hand against his cheek, her brown eyes softening…

Then she slipped away and continued down the stairs.

"You're not off the hook, Mr. Steele," she'd announced, over her shoulder. The impudent remark had left him smiling at her back as he'd followed behind, for the gentle caress of his cheek had said otherwise…

As had the fact she'd not spoken again of either what he'd said in The Whispering Gallery or the language in which he'd said it.

Remington stretched out on the blanket beside Laura, facing her.

"You planned this all along," she indicted quietly, her eyes skirting over the serene lake in St. James Park.

"Mmm hmm," he hummed the admission, while tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Then what was with all the tourist traps this morning?" she wondered, returning the favor and brushing back the unruly lock of hair that was inclined to fall over his forehead.

"Just having a bit of fun with you, Laura."

"You seem to enjoy doing that," she noted, as he scooted closer to her, and sidled his hand over her waist.

"Mmm hmm," he hummed his confirmation, "It's the very spice of life."

"And is that what you were doing in the Whispering Gallery? Having a bit of fun with me?" she questioned with a pair of raised brows and censorious brown eyes. He leaned in and touched his lips above her brows.

"Not in the least," he dismissed the notion, as his lips traveled past her eyes, to her cheek. She absently stroked his upper arm and shoulder. It was all the encouragement he needed, and he inched closer.

"Then what was that about?" she pursued, a smile playing on her lips as he eased her to her back. He froze, then reared his head back to look fully down upon her. He'd lost track of what she was saying– easy to do when his attention was fully focused on kissing the compliant woman in his arms. When the words clicked and he finally answered, it was with a waggish smile upon semi-pursed lips.

"Everything in its own time, Laura," he replied, as he leaned back in, "And right now, it's time for kissing…"

She rolled her eyes when his lips settled over hers, then she forgot all about her questions.

* * *

Remington and Laura had necked like a pair of teens, there on the banks of the lake at St. James Park, then afterwards had jointly agreed to return to Daniel's for a late afternoon ride before showering and dressing for dinner. They'd dined at Andrew Edmunds in Soho – a recently opened five star restaurant to which Thomas had given rave reviews - and afterwards had enjoyed an evening of walking and dancing at, of all places, the London Zoo.

On Monday, a cloud of regret had fallen over the pair as the hands of time had steadily ticked away, both of them recognizing their time together was quickly dwindling. They'd opted to spend those final hours at Daniel's, whiling away the day on the tennis court, then with a sensual dip in the pool where the couple where they indulged themselves, kissing frequently, sharing sensual touches. Dinner had been a somber affair, with Laura shoving her plate away midway through the meal, her appetite having been chased away by the thought of their parting, which was now less than half a day away. Only a few bites later, his meal, too was cast aside, and in silence they'd agreed to retire to his room.

That evening, there was to be no true sleep, as they'd only dozed in between endless rounds of lovemaking, instigated far more by her than him, although he was a willing partner-in-crime. There would be more than enough time to sleep, at least for her, on the plane as it winged its way through the skies towards LA, and he was more than willing to withstand a bit of sleep deprivation if it meant soaking up every last moment they had left together. They'd watched dawn arrive together, standing at his bedroom window, wrapped together in a singular blanket, then had shared a shower where they'd indulged one final time.

He'd been unable to stand by and watch as she'd finished packing her bags, this parting somehow even more difficult than the first, when he'd voluntarily deported himself some weeks before. By the time he'd returned to their room with two cups of tea and a fresh plate a croissants, her bags had sat on the end of the bed, heralding the end of the days stolen. As she made one final check around his room to make certain she'd not forgotten anything, he'd carried her bags down to the car, stopping in Daniel's library along the way, to slip a little something into her carry-on.

They kept conversation light on the way to Heathrow, discussing Haven House, the Agency and their certainty Mildred would pump Laura for information about her trip unendingly upon her return, yet even as they did their utmost to appear undisturbed by the parting – for the other's sake, not so much their own – their hands belied their regrets, fingers tangling, caressing, then weaving together again. They wandered the small stores in the airport delaying her arrival at the departure gate until a feminine voice announced over the loudspeakers that boarding for first class passengers on her flight was now taking place. She made no mention of the hand now clasping hers almost painfully, as they walked to the gate, her ability to wrangle her own emotions hanging by a precarious thread.

Mere steps from the entrance to the jet way, Laura willingly turned into Remington's waiting arms.

She struggled to find something say. Something cheeky… playful… light and cheerful, and came up completely empty handed. He, the man with the gift of gab, was equally mute, his lips parting several times, only for not a sound to pass them. In the end, he settled for bending his head down and resting his forehead against hers.

"Laura."

His beloved voice, saying her name, not with its normal upbeat note, but instead, at the thought of their forced parting, was filled with the same feeling of heartache that she was overwhelmed by proved her undoing. Her face screwed up, and eyes filling with moisture left her blinking rapidly. The very real possibility of losing her composure in the middle of Heathrow for all to see was more than she could bear. Cupping the back of his neck with one hand, hand clenching his upper arm with the other, she pressed a kiss against his neck.

"I love you," she whispered.

Then she was gone and Remington was left holding nothing but air between his arms as pained blue eyes watched her back as she disappeared through the door.

Twenty minutes later he watched her plane taxi away, wish with all that he was it was him sitting in the seat beside her.


	38. Chapter 38: The Box

Chapter 38: The Box

"I don't know why it's so bloody difficult to understand what it is that I'm saying," Remington snapped at the site foreman. "Restoration, not demolition. We've decided to return the place to its glory days."

"But our contract—"

"I know what your contract states as I drew it up," he bit out in a most un-Remington like manner, weary of arguing the point with what was, essentially, a man in his employ, "That very contract states there may be changes to the scope of the project and you will be fully compensated regardless of those changes. Bear in mind we are adding demolition and remodeling of the apartment upstairs, and you will be paid to oversee the upholsterers and refinishers. What we've eliminated, has simply taken on a new dimension. Either you are willing to follow through, or we can terminate the relationship and I will hire another contractor to finish the job."

"There'll be no need for that, sir," the contractor hastily replied understanding the job was now at risk, "We'll do as asked. I'll get with the men immediately."

"Good. I'll be stepping out to begin locating the furnishings the apartments will require as well as the paint choices for the accent walls in each of the bedrooms, as we've discussed. I expect, when I return, demolition in the kitchen and the upstairs apartment will be nearly complete and you'll have a list of subcontractors that I can schedule interviews with." Shoving the papers on the table forcefully into his case, he stormed out the front door of the restaurant.

He came to a stop on the sidewalk outside, and pulling in a deep breath of air, rubbed a hand over his face. He knew he was short tempered at the moment, but had entered the restaurant with a forced cheerfulness he by no means felt. Then, the bloody contractor came at him, demanding explanations for the changes and arguing them… as though he'd not been introduced to these very changes just the day prior when he and Laura had come by Haven House specifically for the purpose of discussing them.

He wasn't at all in the mood for a testy contractor on today of all days, with his own mood swinging like a pendulum, one second positively sullen and the next resentful.

The hell with that...

The truth of the matter was, he was _buggering pissed_!

Swinging the straps of his attaché over his shoulder, he shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk.

He'd worked hard… damned hard… this last year to make Laura understand he wasn't going anywhere…

To _believe_ he wasn't going anywhere…

Yet where were they? Him, here… Her, there – all because some buggering prick felt one-upped by him.

If he'd believe saying goodbye to her in LA had been the hardest thing he could recall every doing… well, he'd been in for a surprise, for this time had been twice as difficult. Her presence had been like the sun breaking through the clouds on a cold a dreary winter day, bringing colors to life and warming all its embrace. To only be deprived of that sunshine again?

He'd wanted to get on board that plane with her—

"Watch out!" someone screamed and a horn blared. His head snapped up just in time to see a black sports car speeding directly towards him, only scant feet away. Muttering an oath, he dove towards the sidewalk, wincing when he landed flat on his face.

 _Perfect._

Amid numerous inquiries if he was okay, he pushed up on his arms then turned over, sitting with his legs extended in front of him while he did a mental inventory of first his clothes, then his own wellness. With a nod and a hand held up assuring those gathered he was fine, he got to his feet, his mood all the more sour. Crossing the street, he opened the door to the car and slid in, glancing at his watch.

Laura would be somewhere over the Atlantic by now.

He wished, deeply, that he were on that plane with her. He wished he could have been selfish enough to ask her to stay.

He carefully pulled the car out into traffic.

If he were honest, his mood was not entirely due to the injustice he saw their separation as, but also was attributable to a certain envelope and package he'd slipped into her carry on. He'd thought the gesture romantic with an element of mystery, which always titillated her senses. Had he considered the idea further, he might have realized it was a gesture guaranteed to drive him mad. It put the proverbial ball entirely in her court and took any ability he might have to influence her completely out of his hands.

Three kilometers from Haven House, he gave the steering wheel a hard yank and cut into a narrow, street-side parking space. Turning off the engine, he looked again at his watch, wondering why it seemed time had come to a standstill, when just yesterday hours flashed by in a blink of an eye.

With an irritated grunt, he climbed from the car, and strode towards the front doors of a bargain furniture store. Perhaps arranging the furnishings for all the units to Laura's proposed design would make him feel a bit closer to her… and would help time along.

* * *

An usually disheveled Laura removed the padlock from the door of her loft and mustering all the energy she had, dragged open the heavy door at five-thirteen. She'd spent seven-and-a-half hours at La Guardia in New York City where the flight was grounded for mechanical reasons. All passengers were placed on standby for the next flights to Los Angeles and then, as if that delay weren't enough, when she'd finally secured a seat on a flight, a massive storm rolled across the Northeast, delaying all flights for four-hours-and-eleven minutes.

She should know, as she'd watched every last one of those minutes tick off on her watch, while she tap-tap-tapped her foot impatiently.

It was after one o'clock in the morning, London time, when Laura dropped her suitcase on the floor and haphazardly tossed her overnight bag and purse on the sofa, before returning to the door, closing and securing it. She was beyond exhausted and starving, having survived the day on enough coffee to make her body feel like it was vibrating and a few nibbles at a sandwich. To add to her already irritable mood, Remington would be sound asleep at this hour, meaning she'd missed out on the before bedtime chat that had become part of their routine since his voluntary deportation. Muttering a string of un-Laura-like expletives beneath her breath, she stomped across the livingroom towards her kitchen, something to eat on her mind.

She foraged through the fridge finding not so much as a cup of yogurt to eat, then peered into the freezer where a few more of the meals Remington had pre-prepared for her still remained. The idea of some of his lasagna for dinner made her mouth water, but lack of a decent wine in the house to enjoy with the Italian fare coupled with the fact she'd have to vigilantly remind herself to remove it from the oven before it burned, sullied the appeal. Smacking shut the freezer door, she puffed in aggravation then stomped to the phone. Chinese it would be.

Picking up the receiver she tapped in the long ago memorized number to her favorite Chinese take out joint, and automatically punched the button on her answering machine, half listening to the messages as they played while she waited on hold with the restaurant.

"Laura, it's your mother. Frances and I were discussing the upcoming holidays—"

 _Delete._ The holidays? _The holidays?!_ What were they thinking!? Thanksgiving was more than five-and-a-half months away, Christmas a month more than that. Well, whatever scheme Frances and Abigail had concocted for the holidays wouldn't include her, as she would be somewhere in Europe with Remington.

"This is Pete with the Police Benevolent Society. I see you've purchased tickets to the Ball the last four years and was calling to inquire how many tickets—"

 _Delete._ She'd begun the tradition of attending the Ball purely for the purpose of networking once Remington had brought to life the previously elusive Mr. Steele. She'd mail in her customary donation, but there would be no Ball for her this year, as it would only serve to remind her further of the enforced separation.

"Miss Holt, this is Joe at State Farm calling with a reminder your auto policy is due for renewal on June the eighth. I can either drop the binder—"

 _Delete._ She'd have Mildred call him back in the morning.

"Miss Holt, Frederick Masters, assistant manager at the Rossmore calling. I've noticed Mr. Steele left you as point of contact while he's out of country, and I'm afraid we've had a bit of a situation. A pipe broke in the unit above Mr. Steele's and his unit has sustained a bit of damage—"

She slammed down the receiver into the cradle. _So much for Chinese,_ she muttered to herself.

Hitting the stop button on the answering machine, she grabbed her purse off the couch where it had landed, and exited the loft, ignoring the phone that began to peel as she pulled shut the door behind her.

Whoever it was calling would have to wait.

* * *

In his bedroom in Daniel's palatial home, Remington listened to the phone ring endlessly once more. When Laura's voice finally greeted the caller requesting they leave a message he did so in a strained voiced.

"Laura, me again. I've left worry in the rear window and am heading quickly towards…" He left the thought unsaid and dragged a hand over his mouth. "You should have been home near on half a day now. If I don't hear from you by six my time, I don't give a bloody damn what the INS does, I'm getting on the first available flight to LA. Just…" he faltered, and searched for the right thing to say, then finally settled with the anything but perfect conclusion of "…call me, Laura. Let me know you're well."

With two fingers he dropped the receiver softly into the phone's cradle then stood to pace.

* * *

At seven-fifty, Laura returned to the loft, a pepperoni pizza and six pack of beer in hand. She didn't normally indulge in such, but next to chocolate the fare was high on her list of comfort foods. Latching the loft door behind her, she sat pizza and beer on the kitchen counter, then once more punched the play button on her answering machine. Grabbing suitcase and carryon she took them up the miniscule flight of stairs to her bedroom and dropped them on the floor at the end of her bed.

"Laura, it's your mother, again. Just a reminder, dear, when you return from your trip you need to give me a call to discuss the holiday plans." Stripping off her clothes, Laura dug in a dresser for a pair of lightweight sweats and a t-shirt.

"Laura, it's Frances. Mother is driving me crazy over her plans for the holiday. Call me." She rolled her eyes as she tugged the shirt over her head.

"Laura, it's me," Remington's rich tenor came through the machine. She froze with one leg partway into her pants. "Just checking in, making sure you made it home safe and sound." Reminding herself he was long asleep at this hour, she tugged the elastic cuff over her foot and started with the second leg.

There had been a good deal of water damage to the ceiling of Remington's flat, in the worst place possible: His cherished kitchen. It was the only time she'd been grateful he was in England instead of here. He'd have been beside himself, lamenting over each pan with a speckling of plaster on it, over how his pristine kitchen was no longer…

"Me, again. Run off with another man already? Kidding, kidding." She couldn't help her puff of laughter and the smile on her face. "Odds are you couldn't help yourself and are at the office toiling away, as I speak. I'll give you a ring there."

Picking up her suitcase and carryon, she lay them on the bed to begin unpacking. The pizza was already cold by the time she arrived home, so a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Unzipping her suitcase she tossed the bag of dirty laundry into her hamper.

As it turned out, her Mr. Steele was keeping secrets from her, again. After surveying the damage, she'd gone downstairs to speak to the manager on duty to inquire why the damage hadn't been fixed – it was, after all, clearly stated in the lease that the management company was responsible for repairs such as this. She'd been shocked, to say the least, when the manager concurred with the landlord's obligation to tenant, but given Mr. Steele owned the apartment, the onus for those repairs was upon him.

"Laura, it's eleven my time. Eleven _PM_ that is," he enunciated. "My imagination's beginning to run away with me. Have you had a car accident? Has Keyes been up to something again?" She could hear the nervousness in his voice. "Have I done something to chase you off? If not the last, call when you get in. I'll be waiting up."

Shoving the last of her clean clothing in a drawer, she winced as she put her suitcase away in the closet then bypassing her carryon walked directly to the phone. She hadn't imagined he'd waited up for her call. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she dialed his number, even as the answering machine dutifully reported his last message….

"Laura, me again. I've left worry in the rear window and am heading quickly towards… You should have been home near on half a day now. If I don't hear from you by six my time, I don't give a bloody damn what the INS does, I'm getting on the first available flight to LA. Just…call me, Laura. Let me know you're well."

She waited for him to pick up the phone when the call went through.

* * *

Remington lunged for the phone, yanking up the receiver before the second ring was complete.

"Steele, here."

"I'm sorry," she drew out the words with sincere apology. He forgot himself for a moment. Forgot he'd been making deals with God should she be safe. Forgot his worries the envelope and package in the bag had chased her off. Forgot his worry that she might be, at that very minute, questioning why she was putting up with this multi-continental relationship.

"Where the hell have you been, Lau-ra?!" he demanded to know, returning to his pacing albeit at much shorter distances given he was tethered to a phone.

"Well—" she began, only to be cut off.

"I've walked holes in the carpeting worrying about any number of things that might have happened preventing you from calling me," he lectured.

"I'm sorry but—" Her eyes narrowed when he cut her off again.

"Do you have any idea how _helpless_ I have felt wondering if you were in trouble and powerless to do—" Exhausted by the long, strenuous flight and her own emotions precarious due to being forced to part that morning, her temper flared.

"If you'd let me get a word in edgewise," she snapped. Lack of sleep and hours of worry had pricked his own temper.

"By all means, have at it." She scowled at the sarcasm dripping off each word he'd spoken.

"When we arrived at La Guardia, my plane was grounded due to mechanical issues." He swallowed hard as visions of her plane's engines malfunctioning sending it plunging into the Atlantic flashed through his vivid imagination. As quickly as his anger had arisen, it fizzled. "All passengers continuing to Los Angeles were placed on standby until seats on alternative flights became available. When I finally had my ticket in hand, a large storm hit most of the Northeastern seaboard, delaying all flights. I didn't get to my loft until after five, only to be greeted with a message on my answering machine from a manager at the Rossmore informing me your apartment had sustained water damage from a flood in the unit above." Already feeling like a heel as he envisioned hours of her being stranded at LaGuardia, his head popped up at the last.

"Damaged?" She chose to ignore the inquiry, to issue an indictment of her own.

"Imagine my surprise when I was informed you were no longer leasing the apartment but had purchased it." He brushed off what he knew was a demand for explanations.

"Forgot to mention that, did I? The damage?" he pursued.

"Water damage to a contained area on the ceiling, I'll have Mildred call a repairman in the morning," she replied with a sigh, recognizing her questions would be left unanswered as long as his were – at the very least. Tugging her carryon on towards her, she unzipped it. "The apartment Mr. Steele?" she pressed again.

"I believe I told you I wasn't going anywhere," he reminded. "It seemed foolish to continue paying rent rather than accruing equity as an owner," he pointed out logically. She removed a lightweight sweater from her bag, brow furrowing, uncertain that she could find fault with that reasoning.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked again, then forgot the question as her hand connected with something foreign in her bag. Moving the bag to her lap, she peered inside to see the envelope and box he'd slipped into it.

"I suppose—"

"When did you have time to put anything in my bag?" she cut him off before an explanation for the flat was made. He drew a hand through his hair, suddenly extremely nervous.

"When I took your bags down to the car," he provided, as she examined the envelope, where he'd scrawled in his neat, precise handwriting 'open first'.

"What's this about?" she asked, even as she slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it to extract a single sheet of paper.

"Just trying for a bit of transcontinental romance, Laura." His hand left his hair so a pair of fingers could tug on his earlobe. She heard the leeriness in his tone, and tilted her head slightly to the side. Unfolding the sheet of paper, she read the narrative written there.

 _Inside this box are three objects: Something stolen, but at the same time freely given; something priceless but far too often underestimated; and, a token whose significance exceeds its worth. The box has traveled a great distance and has somehow been delivered into your hands. Curiosity piqued, you are tempted to open the box, except for the handwritten note upon it…_

Laura picked up the box and with a soft laugh read said note:

 _Open only if you understand your life will be forever altered._

She set the box to the side and returned to the note.

… _The message gives you pause. What if the contents of that package were to change your life in ways you were neither prepared for nor wished for? Fortunately, for you, there are three people who know of the package, and while none of the know its contents, each has in their possession a clue: A trusted business partner; a respected patriarch; and a former government agent. Once all three clues have been collected, find the fourth and final person – a connoisseur with the gift of gab – to decipher the clues you'll hold in hand. It will be up to you, then, to decide if the treasure within is worth the risk of your life changing in unexpected ways._

"A mystery? You're giving me a mystery?" she asked, clearly delighted.

"I am," he confirmed. "Do you intend to solve it?" Her smile widened as she looked at the box, her curiosity most certainly aroused.

"How could I possibly resist?" she countered, picking up the box and shaking. Whatever the items within were, they weren't very heavy.

"That's what I was counting on. And no cheating, Laura," he warned. "I'll know if you take a shortcut and don't follow the clues."

"Cheat? Me?"´she asked, drawing out each word, suggesting the idea absurd, even as her fingers itched to open the box here and now.

"Despite your protestations otherwise, you, Laura Holt, cannot resist a wrapped package," he indicted. She remained silent on his point: Never would she admit he was correct.

"Do you intend to give me a place to start?"

"Start where you taught me: At the beginning," was his cryptic reply. He chuckled at her sigh. She should have known better.

"Have you gotten any sleep since I left?" she wondered, with an abrupt change of topic. After his initial outburst, his energy had notably flagged.

"Hadn't a chance," he confirmed her suspicions. "Had a few matters to tend to with Haven House, then imagining any number of things that might have happened to you kept sleep at bay." She glanced at her bedside table and calculated the time difference. He'd been without any true sleep for nearly two days now.

"Go to sleep, Remington," she ordered, quietly. "We'll talk in the morning." Sleep deprivation, his prior worry, missing her, had all served to tear down the walls he might normally hide behind, and he displayed a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Laura, are we okay?"

"How could we not be? You gave me a mystery to solve, after all," she answered lightly. He nodded his head rapidly, even as he fought against unconsciousness. "Goodnight, Mr. Steele."

"Goodnight, Miss Holt."

He wasn't quite sure how the receiver made it back into its cradle.


	39. Chapter 39: The Trusted Partner

Chapter 39: The Trusted Partner

"Good morning, Mildred," Laura greeted brightly, as she walked through the glass door of Remington Steele Investigations.

"Well don't you look like the cat who ate the canary," Mildred observed, beaming at the younger woman. "I'm guessing things went well between you and the Chief?"

"Let's just say it was worth every minute of the jetlag," Laura grinned, then held out the larger of the two packages held in her arms. "For Bernard, from Mr. Steele and myself." Mildred took the wrapped and ribbon festooned box from her.

"You and the Boss picked it out together? You didn't have to do that," she replied. "I'm sure the two of you had better things to do than shop." She winked at Laura, leaving the younger woman rolling her eyes.

"Never mind that, Mildred," she scolded lightly, setting the smaller box on the edge of Mildred's desk and holding out her hand for mail and messages. "It was our pleasure. As I said before, Mr. Steele is very fond of Bernard."

"So when do you go back?"

"I'll fly out on Saturday the twenty-seventh and return the following Sunday," Laura announced. She shared a conspiratorial smile with Mildred. "But I won't be going back to London." The older woman looked at her with eager curiosity.

"Where you off to this time?"

"Rome, then Venice," she shared.

"Aww, honey, I wouldn't wish what's happened to the Boss on anyone, but I gotta admit, I'm more than a little jealous. England then Italy? Talk about cramming the most into your visits!" Laura's fingers paused, where they'd been sorting through the stack of mail, pulling out a particular piece here and there. Her eyes fell on Mildred.

"I'd forgo every bit of the travel, if it meant he didn't feel like control over his own life has been pried out of his hands." Mildred's face screwed up with regret at her choice of words.

"Aw, hon, you know I didn't mean it like that," she lamented. "I'd give up bowling with the Dragon Ladies if it meant he could come back." Laura handed her back the mail Mildred could take charge of.

"I know you would," she sighed. She slapped the mail against her hand, and forced herself to focus on business. "So, what do I have today?"

"Linda Sheffield from Sandy City, Utah at ten. Her fifteen-year-old daughter, Emma, fell in with a bad crowd last fall, then disappeared with her twenty-three-year-old boyfriend in March. The mother had reason to believe she's in the Hollywood area somewhere."

"Of course," Laura sighed. Every year hundreds of runaways found their way to LA. "What else?"

"At one, you have Marilyn Moore. She'd like the Agency to locate a dozen, dozen-and-a-half of her 'closest friends and relatives,' so she can send them a wedding invitation." Laura's head popped up from the insurance renewal policy she was perusing.

"'Closest,' huh?" One side of her mouth quirked upwards and she laughed shortly.

"She's after the loot," Mildred assessed with a bit of sarcasm.

"That's what it sounds like and her bill will likely cost more than the gifts she receives," Laura concurred, then added, "And will pay more than half our bills for the month." While taking a great deal of weight off her shoulders, she acknowledged silently. The Agency had a fairly healthy savings account that could sustain the demands of the budget for at least half a year, but if they could simply cover costs while leaving that account untouched until Remington returned, she'd be happy.

"I blocked out from three-to-four throughout the week for your conversation with the Boss, and you'll wrap up your appointments at four with Mr. Baumgartner – his alarm system keeps triggering." Mildred looked up at her, calendar concluded.

"Alright, I'll get the details then Monroe and I will check the system. When do I have a good block of time available tomorrow?"

"You have appointments scattered across the day," Mildred replied with a shake of her head. "Skip traces at nine, ten, two and four and a security job at twelve-thirty." Laura crossed her arms and tapped a finger against the opposite arm, thinking.

"Reschedule the twelve-thirty, two o'clock and four o'clock appointments to the morning. All appointments back-to-back, thirty minute increments," she ticked off. "I'll be free by noon. Should we be hired to locate the runaway, I'll need afternoons and evenings to investigate." A thought occurred to her: She'd need time for a… private… investigation, as well. "While we're at it, let's schedule out the rest of the week the same."

"You got it," Mildred agreed.

"Also, Mr. Steele's apartment has sustained water damage to the roof in his kitchen-"

"His _kitchen!_ " Mildred interrupted to fret. Laura held up a hand.

"I know, I know. He is aware there is some damage to his flat, but I didn't tell him where. I'd suggest we keep that to ourselves," she advised. Concurring, Mildred made a motion as though zipping her lips closed. "But I did promise him you'd arrange for repairs."

"I'm on it," Mildred agreed. Picking up the mysterious box, Laura walked towards her office, then stopped abruptly and faced Mildred again.

"My nine o'clock. Have her fill out the information paperwork, then run a full background. Let's make sure Keyes isn't up to something again."

With that, she secreted herself behind her office door. Tossing the mail on her desk, and sitting down the package far more reverently, she opened a desk drawer and dropped her purse inside. Flopping down in her chair, she picked up the package and gave it another gentle shake.

When Remington had called shortly after she'd stepped out of the shower this morning, she'd done her level best to wheedle a bit more information out of him. But, alas, well-rested now, his ability to tap dance around her questions had been fully restored.

"What did you mean, 'start at the beginning'?" she'd asked.

"Isn't that what you've always said: To solve the mystery you have to start at the beginning?" he challenged.

"Well, yes, but in this specific instance, the information I've been given would lend itself towards being the middle of the case," she argued.

"I would have to disagree. In fact, I might argue it has two beginnings with the potential of three different endings," he countered. She puffed in frustration.

"Then _which_ beginning should I start with?" she tried again.

"I'd imagine the beginning that will provide you the answers you need," came his quick reply.

She extracted precisely nothing from the taciturn man. Opening the drawer to her desk, she removed his note from her purse, then leaned back in her chair to study it again.

 _Start at the beginning… start at the beginning…_ The box was the beginning. How could it not be? Objects were first placed in it and she'd first become aware of it when she'd found it the evening before. She discarded the idea as she had a half dozen before. The box might be a beginning but it was also the answer.

The only logical conclusion was the people were the beginning, the ones who held the clues. _A trusted business partner, a respected patriarch, a former government agent and a connoisseur with the gift for gab_ … _A trusted business partner, a respected patriarch, a former government agent and a connoisseur with the gift for gab._

She bolted straight up in her chair, a proud smile on her face.

 _Of course…_

* * *

"Forgive me, if I'm intruding, Remington," Thomas spoke as they wandered the back gardens of the Earl's home, "But you seem troubled this evening. Is there something you're keeping from me about Haven House?" Remington flashed the man a quick smile.

"No. All is on schedule, as I've said – perhaps even a bit ahead." Thomas's eyes remained on Remington's face and he lay a convivial hand upon the younger man's shoulder.

"Yet, you don't deny you're troubled," he observed. Remington's eyes flickered to Thomas and away.

"As much as I've enjoyed our endeavors," he began, pausing to rub his hand over his mouth, "Now that they're nearing completion, I find I'm at more of a loss than I was before."

"You miss Los Angeles," the Earl astutely concluded.

"More than I ever thought was possible," he confirmed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I've carved out a life there that I never imagined I'd have, a life a man can be proud of. I've a job I not only enjoy, but one where I honestly believe Laura and I make a difference." He smiled wide. "I've purchased a home there, my first…" he grew sober, staring out across the gardens silently, feet moving ahead by rote, "Something I'd never conceived of doing, having vowed never to stay one place too long… maybe even believing I wasn't entitled to one." He shook himself out of his reverie, forcing a smile. "My car is there. A 1936 Auburn supercharged speedster," he boasted, proudly. "Laura and I stumbled upon it…" he chuckled "…Or more accurately, we were nearly run over by it a few years back during a case."

"Is that commonplace? Such risk in your work?" Thomas wondered. Remington chuckled.

"We seem to find ourselves getting in and out of a tangle regularly," he acknowledged. "In truth, I believe that's part of the draw for the both of us: We relish the challenge."

"Such risks to your persons don't frighten you?" the Earl questioned. Remington's smile faded, and he dragged a troubled hand across his mouth.

"Only when we're not able to watch one another's backs," he worried, aloud. "If I've learned anything these last years, it's that Laura and I always come out on top so long as we're together. With me here, and her there, I can't help but worry…" his words trailed off. Thomas patted Remington on the shoulder a couple of times, a move meant to be assuring.

"From what I've observed, Laura is a bright and cautious young woman. Surely, she'll—"

"Laura is hardheaded, determined, and impulsive, at least where work is concerned," Remington corrected. "On more than one occasion she's placed her neck on the line without me there to back her up." He lifted a hand to nibble at the thumbnail. "But it's the assaults upon us that we don't see coming which worry me most."

"Assaults?" Thomas questioned with concern.

"Any number of people we've helped put behind bars, determined to pay us back for our prior efforts," Remington explained. He fell silent for several long seconds, then dropped his hand from his mouth and shoved both hands into his pockets. "Well, no use dwelling on it, since I am powerless to do anything to change the situation as it stands."

"Remington, I do hold some sway with officials whom might convince your government to see past the irregularities in your passport," the Earl offered. "You and Laura are looked upon appreciatively for your assistance in ending the White Chapel Slasher's murderous spree, not to mention averting the attempted assassination upon myself." The offer was tempting – very much so. But with a slow shake of his head, Remington clapped Thomas on the shoulder in thanks.

"I appreciate the offer. I do," he declined, "But I gave my word to Laura that I'd play this one straight, and that's what I intend to do." They departed the gardens and stepped on to the terrace.

"I'm afraid I don't understand how my making a request through the proper channels could be viewed as anything but on the up-and-up. Join me for tea in the sunroom?" Thomas invited. Remington glanced at his watch. He had plenty of time before he caught a screening of _North by Northwest._

"It'd be my pleasure," he accepted.

Remington made himself comfortable while Thomas requested tea from the kitchen. Their conversation continued as though without pause, as the Earl joined him in taking a seat.

"Laura places tremendous weight on doing things the right way," Remington shared. "My habit of taking shortcuts during times of difficulty has been a continual stumbling block in our… personal… relationship. Should I do so now…" _Especially in light of rejecting her proposal of marriage to subrogate the INS's dictate,_ he silently noted "…I'd be risking her trust, and that I'm unwilling to do."

"Even if my intervention would put to rest your worries her well-being could be at risk so long as you remain here?" Thomas challenged. Remington laughed openly at the notion.

"If Laura were to catch wind that I'd rushed home for such a reason, she'd cut me off at the knees."

"I should think she'd appreciate your concern for her safety," Thomas rebutted, clearly confused.

"Mmm, one might think so, but not her," Remington corrected. "She's the independent sort, convinced she can take care of herself no matter how large the adversary." Thomas eyed him speculatively.

"A trait you seem… appreciative… of," he observed, drawing another chuckle from Remington.

"For the most part," he concurred, "Although less appreciative than annoyed when she sidelines me for my own welfare but thwarts any attempts on my part to do the same to her." He grinned at Thomas and lifted his brows. "Hardheaded."

"Yet you seem to admire the trait in her," Thomas smiled, with a lift of his own brows, as their tea was set down before them. "Thank you, Mrs. Gunderson."

"I do," Remington answered honestly, then took pause, pursing his lips, growing pensive. "It's that very stubbornness that has been responsible for her giving me another chance to get it right when I've blundered…" he laughed wryly, and rubbed at his chin "…and believe me when I say, I've done so more times than I'd care to admit. From the very start she saw something in me no one else ever had, not even myself, and wouldn't rest until she drew every last piece of it out of me, until I believed it as well." He flashed Thomas a smile. "That faith in me is the very reason I have to play this one straight, to show her I am willing to lay all that matters most to me on the line by doing this, at least, right, from beginning to end, not so much for myself as it is for her."

"I understand," Thomas replied with a nod. "So what are your plans once Haven House is complete?" Remington took a long sip of his tea, considering how much to say, then decided to voice the words he'd said to no one, not even Laura.

"Unless the INS has a sudden change of heart, which I don't foresee, I've at least another six months here in Europe." His eyes met Thomas's. "After Laura joins me in Italy at the end of the month, I'm going to Ireland. It's time to put an end to the question of who I am, where I come from… no matter the answers…"

* * *

Laura strode with long, confident strides through the warehouse, then knocked on the wood and glass door of an office tucked close to the loading dock.

"Come in!" a voice called from behind the barrier.

Swinging open the door, she stepped inside.

"Laura!" Monroe greeted with a wide smile, immediately standing and rounding his desk. Grasping her upper arms in his hands, he leaned in and bussed her on both cheeks then returned to his desk chair, indicating a chair across from him with an outstretched hand. "Please have a seat. To what do I owe this unexpected yet wonderful surprise?"

"I need your help, actually. Baumgartner's Gems has had issues with their system triggering false alarms. I was hoping you could find some time tomorrow to have a look at it with me, then do an evaluation for a new system installation as well?" While the Agency had overseen the installation of security systems here and there prior to Remington's arrival, in the years since, his prior experience at circumventing some of the best security systems in the world had made them one of the leading 'go-to' security installation agencies in Los Angeles. She knew where her gifts lay, and was not so prideful as to believe it was here.

"I gave Mick my word to assist you in any way I might during his absence," Monroe reminded her, "So I will, of course, find the time."

"I appreciate that," she smiled, then carefully blanked her face. "It's a testament to the trust Mick has in you that he'd take you on your word to be here when I might need your assistance." Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head.

"Much like your own with Mick, our history together has proven I will not let him down should he call for help, just as I know I may count on him, should need arise." She picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her skirt.

"Has the INS given you any trouble given your partnership in the business with Mick?" She'd long suspected Remington had a financial interest in the string of electronic stores Monroe ran, but had never asked. As long as he was playing it clean, if Remington wished to keep his financial affairs to himself – well, they were his business, she reminded herself, neatly setting aside her affront when she'd discovered he owned the condo.

"Unless Mick revealed our partnership to the INS, I don't see why I would as our business arrangement is based on a gentleman's handshake, nothing more," he shared. Monroe's eyes reminded Laura of Remington's – always alert, always watchful, always evaluating every tick on one's face, one's every gesture. Lucky for her, four years with her Mr. Steele had taught her to read people nearly as well, and the man's posture indicated he was suspicious yet amused.

"Are you aware of a certain box Mick was giving me?" she cut to the chase. He grinned wide at her.

"I am," he confirmed. _Bingo!_ She perched on the edge of the chair.

"His note to me said you held a clue to what is in that box?" Smile widening, he propped his feet on the desk.

"I do." She released a puff of exasperation.

"Care to share?" Steepling his fingers, he laughed softly.

"You've just returned from London, have you not? How is my old friend fairing?" he asked instead. Her lips pinched together for an instant before she remembered herself.

"He's keeping his schedule full, just as I am," she replied, looking pointedly at her watch.

"Days spent watching films in historic theaters and evenings testing the wine and fine foods London has to offer?" he speculated.

"Not exactly," she answered, dryly. She leveled a shrew gaze upon Remington's friend and co-hort. "Lemme guess: Mick told you to have 'a bit of fun with me' before you gave me the clue." He barked a laugh, that settled into a deep chuckle.

"You know Mick all too well," he complimented while dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up. "He most assuredly did exactly that." Pulling open the top, center drawer of his desk, he extracted an envelope and handed it to her. Not even bothering to hide her eagerness, she tore open the envelope and yanked out the piece of paper within.

Then groaned aloud, when she looked down at Remington's elegant scrawl.

 _Ta tu mo chroi, mo ghra amhain fior. Ba mhaith liom an chuid eile de mo laethanta a chaitheamh leat, ag argóint leat, ag gáire leat, a roinnt leaba leat._

 _What good is a clue, if it's a puzzle in and of itself?_ she lamented.

"Shall I take it this isn't quite what you had hoped?" Monroe inquired, leaning forward in his seat. She sent him an exasperated look.

"Maybe not hoped for, but should have expected," she answered resignedly, then quirked a wry half-smile at him. "Mick never can get straight to a point. I don't know why I thought this time would be any different. Do you have any idea what language this is?" She stretched her arm across the desk, offering him the passage, only for him to laugh and regain his original pose in his chair.

"Mick said should you ask, and that you assuredly would, I am to relay from him: 'What's life without—"

"'…a little mystery,'" she finished with an eye roll and then a sigh. "Of course, he did."

"And he wished I convey to you, that to solve the mystery you will need in hand all clues, for no clue alone will lead you to the solution."

"I'm beginning to think Mick might have too much time on his hands after all," she commented resignedly, then folding the piece of paper, opened her purse and slipped it inside. Setting aside the mystery of the box for now, she turned her focus towards the case she'd taken on that morning. "Monroe, do you, by any chance, know Weasel, Mick's… friend," she said the last with a bit of distaste.

"I've a passing acquaintance with him, yes," he answered, clearly curious. Reaching into her purse again, she pulled out another piece of paper and offered it to him.

"Would you be able to get this to him? As much as I hate to admit it, Weasel's contacts on the street have been of some help to Mick and I in the past, and I'd like to find this girl as quickly as possible." Monroe's eyes scanned the photo copy of the picture Laura had been given by Linda Sheffield at their earlier meeting. Mildred's background checks on Sheffield and her daughter had come back confirming both identity and the status of runaway/endangered child attached by Sandy City police to Emma, she'd taken on the case.

"Runaway?" he guessed.

"Yes. Fifteen-years-old, possibly accompanied by a twenty-three-year-old male," she supplied. "Emma has been missing since March. Her best friend apparently has known all along where they were heading, but was pledged to secrecy. Last week, after a hysterical call from Emma, the girl cracked and spilled everything she knew to Emma's mom."

"I assure you, I'll pass along the information, personally," he assured. "Might I suggest I make copies of this picture and distribute it to my men? They have eyes and ears all over this fair city of ours." She gave him a grateful smile as she rose.

"That would be wonderful." She extended her hand to him. "Tomorrow at noon at the Agency?" she suggested.

"I'll make it a point to free my schedule." He stood and took her hand, raising it to buss it across the knuckles. "It's been a pleasure, as always. Each time we meet I am reminded of how you managed to accomplish what once I believed impossible." She raised her brows and peered up at him.

"Oh, and what was that?" He walked with her towards his office door.

"Why stole my old friend's heart, of course. Had you not, I might be tempted to lure you away," he teased lightly, only partly joking. She laughed softly and smiled, turning to face him.

"I'd make you crazy within a day," she predicted, then pressed a kiss against his cheek. "Tomorrow at noon, unless you get word on Emma. Bye, Monroe."

He watched Laura walk away, until she disappeared from sight, then nodded his head with satisfaction. Mick had finally met his match.


	40. Chapter 40: Italian Lessons

Chapter 40: Italian Lessons

After a quick stop at the local Kinkos where she had a couple dozen copies of Emma's picture produced, Laura drove to the Lost Souls Mission. Sam had taken over operations of the Mission after Wallace's murder, nearly four years before. Sam had a soft spot for Remington given his fifty-thousand-dollar donation to the mission in Wallace's name. In the ensuing years, the Agency had followed suit, its donations at Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter guaranteeing no one would find the doors closed because the Mission had run out of food. Those donations by no means matched that of Remington's initial one, but the Mission was endlessly thankful for them… for which Remington received all the credit, she noted with a silent laugh.

Still, when she'd approached Sam with a half dozen pictures to hang throughout the dining hall and residence area, he was all too happy to help, even offering to make an announcement at dinner that evening requesting all guests keep their eye out for the young girl.

From the Mission she zipped back to the office to meet with Marilyn Moore whose list of 'close friends and relatives' had grown to thirty-eight people she wished the Agency to locate. When Laura had quoted the woman the Agency's hourly rate and minimum per, Moore had handed over her Daddy's American Express Gold without so much as a blink of an eye. Laura had to forcibly squelch her smile of glee, as one swipe of that card had paid the Agency's bills for a month… and then some. Anything else earned over the next weeks could be safely tucked away.

Often, Laura would offer clients that hired them a discount when multiple skip traces were requested. Those skip traces were the bread and butter of Agency operations, providing as much as half of the Agency's monthly revenue. It was a bonus that the vast majority were speedy, earning that minimum with a limited expenditure of Agency resources.

But she didn't offer a discount to Moore. No, not this time. She'd like to pretend her lack of generosity was solely due to Moore's greed, which the woman had inadvertently confirmed with several asides she'd made. Yet, Laura honestly acknowledged the fact that the woman, even absent her greed, reminded her far too much of the women Remington had paraded through the office when he'd first arrived: Tall, stacked, vapid and shallow.

As soon as the card had been run and the contract signed, she'd pawned the bimbo off on poor Mildred. Twice in the last hour and twenty-five minutes, Laura had left her office for fresh coffee, each time finding Moore impatiently tapping her foot and snarking at Mildred.

"'Last known address?" Mildred had asked the first time Laura had passed through.

"If I knew that, why would I be hiring you?" the woman had snapped. Mildred took a deep breath in a bid for patience.

"What address did Henrietta live at the last time you saw her?" she tried again.

"How should I know? She came to my parents for dinner," Moore snapped again. Mildred ground her teeth together.

"Any idea where she _might_ have lived in then?" she asked through tight lips.

"Some dump she called a bungalow in Ventura," the woman sniffed with disdain.

Laura rolled her eyes at Mildred in commiseration then refilled her cup and returned to her office. On the second trip through, Mildred had grown weary, asking each question reluctantly and drawing her lips in against her teeth when she wasn't speaking. Given the murderous look directed at Laura, Moore would be fortunate to depart the office before Mildred leaned over the desk, put her hands around the woman's neck and rung it.

While Mildred handled Moore, Laura had begun digging into the Sheffield case. With the permission of the girl's mother, she'd called Emma's best friend, who'd sobbed throughout their conversation. Emma, Laura learned, had begun drinking heavily the fall prior when she'd met Jimmy B. Only drinking, her friend had insisted. The last time Emma had called, however, she'd been more than drunk, alternating between muttering incoherently and hysterically rambling that she wanted to come home but Jimmy said he'd kill her first and she was convinced her mother wouldn't let her return. The conversation had served to underscore the urgency of finding the fifteen-year-old.

She'd have to canvas the seedy hotels and flop houses off of Hollywood Boulevard that evening…

The buzz of the intercom drew her out of her thoughts.

"Yes, Mildred?" she answered after plucking up the receiver.

"That woman is a menace," Mildred pronounced, "But at least she's finally gone. Oh, and the Boss is on line one." A smile lit Laura's face. _Right on time._

"If you don't mind, go ahead and start on those skip traces. As soon as I'm off the phone, I'll grab a stack and get to work."

"You got it."

Jabbing at the blinking button on her phone, Laura leaned back in her chair.

"Laura Holt," she announced.

"So formal, Miss Holt?" Remington's rich tenor came over the line as he buttoned the top to his navy silk pajamas.

"Better safe than sorry, Mr. Steele," she retorted, immediately. "How was your day?"

"Good, good. The accent walls you suggested in the resident rooms will be finished tomorrow. All the furnishings for the apartment and rooms have been ordered. Delivery will begin Friday morning. The foreman found an upholstery restorer. They'll be breaking down and hauling off the chairs and booth seats in the morning to begin the repairs," he filled her in.

"It sounds like you've made a good deal of progress," she noted.

"We have." He pulled back comforter and sheet on his bed, and sat down. "The kitchen will be complete mid-next week. I expect the Hannigan's will be able to move in a week from Saturday, the residents during the week after." She leaned back in her chair, and kicking off her shoes, rested her hosed feet on the corner of the desk.

"I'm impressed. Have you given any thought to what you're going to do once Haven House is wrapped up?"

"I was thinking I might spend a bit of time on the beach in Spiaggia di Tuerredda before meeting you in Rome." She tilted her head slightly to the side and lifted a pair of questioning brows.

"Spiaggia di Tuerreda? Where exactly is that?" He stretched out on his back on the bed and lay his head in the palm of his free hand.

"A small island off the coast of Italy – Sardinia to be precise. Ah, Laura," he shared, picturing the small island in his mind, "The water is pale blue for as far as the eye can see. The sand is pure white and the fragrance of the juniper trees hangs in the breeze. The town is… quaint, I suppose you'd call it , providing a small but good selection of restaurants from which to choose. The island hasn't been discovered overly much, so it's the perfect destination for a tranquil getaway."

"Sounds lovely." He smiled at the slightly breathless quality of her voice. In his opinion, one of her most attractive traits was her vivid imagination.

"I'll have to take you there, time after next when you visit," he decided. "We'll find a private cove and make love in the Mediterranean Sea," he daydreamed aloud.

"Sounds wonderful," she replied, dreamily, already picturing the warm water lapping against their bodies, skimming over her nipples, while his hand stroked her bum, and his body moved within hers. A shiver of anticipation sent goosebumps coursing over her skin, her nerves titillated by the vision. He could never resist the lure of sex and water, whether that water was in a Jacuzzi tub or shower. As sensual an experience as it was for her, she'd long ago assessed it must be doubly so for him, for no matter how slow he'd try to keep their lovemaking in the beginning, he – the man of remarkable control – would find himself unable to maintain his restraint and soon he'd be pounding into her – deeper, harder, faster – as his teeth nipped at her shoulders, his mouth suckled on her—

"La-ura," Remington called a bit louder this time. With a hard blink, she gave her head a small shake.

"Yes?" she croaked. Her nose crinkled at his amused chuckle. Clearly, she'd checked out.

"Mmmm, what kind of wicked thoughts were you having, love?" he hummed. She pursed her lips with displeasure. He knew her too well… but she wasn't going to let him have that leg up on her.

"I was thinking about Monroe, actually," she fibbed. He choked on an inhale, her reply coming from far afield as it had.

"Mon… Monroe?" he asked with disbelief. "Laura, I know you think my ego is healthy, at times overly inflated even, but I assure you, it is a considerable blow to any man's ego to hear a woman is thinking of another man as he's attempting to convince her to engage in a passionate interlude."

"Oh, stop," she laughed, with an unseen wave of her hand, "You know that's not what I meant, although…" she drew out the word, with purpose "… I have to—"

"Lau-ra," this time it was he who drawled her name… in warning, "Should you finish that thought I may be forced to abandon my occasional evening of poker or billiards with Monroe in favor of Weasel." She laughed with mirth.

"I was going to say, he reminded me a great deal of you today." He drew back his head and made a face on the other side of the line.

"I don't see how. We're nothing at all alike," he harrumphed.

"How could he not, provoking me as he was. I believe he said you'd advised he should have a 'bit of fun' with me?" A wide smile replaced his frown.

"Ah, have the first clue, then, do you?" Sight unseen, she nodded her head, as she reached into her drawer, then purse, and pulled out the folded piece of paper.

"I do," she confirmed. "This wouldn't happen to be what you said to me in the Whispering Gallery, would it be?" she asked, suspicion threading her voice. He tugged at his ear.

"For the most part," he confirmed, then held up a finger in the air. "And that's all you're getting out of me." Her eyes narrowed. _We'll see._

"Alright," she agreed, sighing long and loud. "You seem very focused on Italy these last few days," she commented conversationally. "Is there any particular reason for that?"

"Nothing more than a bit of practicality on my part, I assure you. If we're going to meet in Rome in a few weeks, it seemed logical to spend the intervening time there, as opposed to France or Spain." Picking up a pen off her desk, she twiddled with it.

"I guess I just thought you'd prefer a more… lively… destination. You know, a nightlife, casinos, museums, streets lined with expensive, designer stores where you can buy ridiculously overpriced garments to further stuff your absurdly filled closets…" She deliberately allowed her words to trail off. His lips pursed with amusement. She was up to something, and he decided to give her enough lead to find out what that 'something' was.

"There are any number of fine modistes, tailors and stores in Rome. I imagine I can 'stuff' a suitcase or two there, should the impulse to do so seize me." That she didn't immediately complain about shopping whilst on holiday confirmed his suspicions that she was up to something.

"Do you have an English-Italian Dictionary? If not, I could pick one up." _Ahhhhhhhh._

"I don't think we'll have call for one, as a good deal of Rome's residents speak both English and Italian." A smug smile played on her lips.

"Italian wouldn't be happen to be one of those languages you speak a 'smattering' of, would it be?" she wondered.

"Given the time I spent near Florence with Daniel, not to mention my occasional… visits… in later years, I should think so; at least enough to know if the police may have issued a warrant for my arrest..."

As he'd intended, Laura's mind immediately flashed to another time and place, when they'd stood amid vegetables strewn across a street in Cannes, a gendarme standing nearby, inquiring to their welfare, as the officer's radio blared an announcement in French.

* * *

" _ **Inspector Vouvray has just issued a warrant for your arrest."**_

* * *

"Or to provide instructions to the driver of a hack…"

Again, she was reminded of those days in Cannes, when they'd hailed a taxi to follow a car that had nearly run them down. She'd tried her utmost to instruct the driver, to no avail, the driver only putting the car into drive when Remington had waived a franc note of sizeable sum in front of the driver's eyes.

She scowled now, as her temper ignited.

"Are you trying to tell me that you speak French, as well?" she asked, voice harsh. "That you allowed me to fumble my way through in Cannes – having a good laugh at my expense, I might add – while you could have—"

"Now, Laura," he cut her off, before she could get too revved up, "Think about my life before. Knowing certain key phrases in any number of languages was imperative to my survival, or at least maintaining my freedom." She let out a puff of breath.

"Well, I guess I can understand that," she relented. "Just how proficient is your Italian?" she asked, returning to her original objective. He scratched at his chin, pondered his words before speaking.

"I suppose most natives would consider it… adequate,"

"Teach me something," she requested. A mischievous smile lit his face.

"If you' like." He pursed his lips and thought on it for a moment. "Voglio strapparti i vestiti."

"Voglio strapparti vestiti," she repeated.

"Close, although you missed a word. Voglio strapparti i vestiti," he said again.

"Voglio strapparti i vestiti."

"Excellent, Laura," he praised, then dared to add, "And a sentiment I both appreciate and share." Her eyes narrowed.

"And what sentiment might that be?" A smug smile pulled his lips upwards.

"I believe the rough translation to be something along the lines of you wishing to rip my clothes off." She dropped the pen, tucked the phone between shoulder and ear and crossed her arms, not at all amused.

"A line you've used on any number of bimbos spread out all over Italy, I'm sure," came her quick retort in a pinched tone. He grimaced at the misstep. Of course, that is where her mind would go.

"Sogno il giorno in cui potrò dormire con te tra le mie braccia ogni notte," he rattled off in a quiet voice. "Words, I assure you, I've never felt, let alone said, until I met you," he offered.

"I'm afraid to ask," she groused.

"I dream of the day I can sleep with you in my arms every night," he provided in a soft, sincere voice. She let out a long breath and her shoulders relaxed.

"I'm looking forward to that as well," she admitted, then returned, doggedly, to her original pursuit. "But that's not what you said to me in the Whispering Gallery, is it?" He chuckled as her temper departed and her persistence returned.

"If you mean was I speaking Italian, the answer is no, I was not." He knew he'd only answered half of what she'd asked, but couldn't help provoking her a bit, despite her pique just seconds before. She fairly growled.

" _Mr. Steele_ ," she drawled in warning.

"Perhaps in part, although only a very small part," he conceded. "Find the clues and solve them, Laura. I'm hoping you'll find it worth the effort."

"Need I remind you, I have a job? Not only a job, but one that requires my full attention, longer hours, if I want to be flying off around the world on regular basis in the months to come? Thirty-eight skip traces, today alone. A case involving a missing runaway. Mr. Baumgartner's alarm system glitching," she ticked off. "Not to mention back-to-back appointments tomorrow morning from nine until noon and—"

" _The Shining,_ Jack Nicholson, Shelly Duvall, Warner Brothers, 1980," he interrupted.

"Lemme guess: All work and no play?" she snarked.

"Laura," he quietly beseeched, "I'm not there to entice you into taking a break, into eating a good meal. All I ask is that you try to remember how thrilled you were just last evening about this little mystery and that you take the time – well earned time, I might add – to enjoy it." Guilt swamped her. He'd gone to a great deal of effort to put together this little mystery for her, and here she sat acting as though it as an imposition.

"I'm sorry and I _am_ enjoying it." She let out a long breath, holding up a hand and dropping it. "It's just making me a little crazy, as well."

"Mmm," he hummed his acknowledgement. "I was counting on it getting under your skin, actually." She cocked her head to the side and frowned.

"Why is that?" She could hear the smile in is voice when he answered.

"Because that insatiable curiosity of yours will leave you with no choice but to take some time for yourself to solve the mystery of what's inside."

"And once I do, how are you going to assure I take time for myself afterwards?" she challenged, a smile playing on her lips.

"Perhaps by doing nothing more than whispering sweet nothings in your ear," he suggested.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to recall you saying those were sweet _somethings_ ," she reminded, then listened as his warm laughter came through the line.

"Indeed, I did." Glancing at her watch, her face fell with disappointment. Baumgartner would be arriving shortly, and she needed to get to work on those skip traces.

"I'm going to have to go," she informed him with no little regret.

"The call of the Agency waits for no man, eh?" Despite the good humor with which he'd spoken the words, he failed at hiding his disappointment, for she knew him far too well.

"Remington?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I do love you." In his room, half a world away, he closed his eyes and savored the words, needing to clear his throat to speak past the suddenly constriction in his chest. There were days she simply… bowled him over.

"That, love, isn't something," he responded in a voice clogged with emotion, "It's _everything._ Goodnight, Miss Holt."

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele."

She hung up the receiver slowly, all the while cursing the day they'd come to know Norman Keyes.


	41. Chapter 41: A New Clue

Chapter 41: A New Clue

Laura turned the steering wheel and pointed the car down the Tarzana street where her sister lived. By her calculations she could spend forty-five minutes at Frances's house before returning to LA, where she'd canvas Hollywood Boulevard for Emma Sheffield until late in the evening.

A respected patriarch. Well, there weren't very many fathers – or even father figures – in Remington's life and of the ones that did exist, she could only think of two he respected and admired: Daniel, who'd been a father figure to him, and Donald, the father of her three nieces and nephews. Given the combative nature of her relationship with Daniel, she'd easily eliminated him, whereas with Donald – it had almost been _too_ easy to confirm. She'd been around Remington and Donald enough to know the former both admired and was somewhat in awe of the latter's commitment to his wife and family.

It was a very accurate assessment on her part, and she might have been shocked to know he'd, only a few months before, said as much to Donald.

* * *

 _ **"Are you kidding? Come on, what a life! The greatest risk I run is being bitten by a patient. No, I admire you, Steele. I really, really, do."**_

 _ **"You know, funny thing is… I admire you."**_

 _ **"Me?**_

" _ **Mmm-hmmm. Because you made a commitment to one person. Well, four people, in fact."**_

 _ **"Well, I don't know. I'll tell you, there's sometimes days, I reach that freeway off ramp, I want to just keep right on driving."**_

 _ **"But you don't. And that makes you more of a hero in my way of thinking."**_

* * *

Pulling the Rabbit up next to the curb, she turned off the engine and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, taking a moment to steel herself for what was to come. A part of her could gladly ring Remington's neck for choosing Donald as a clue keeper. She still hadn't answered the multiple messages left for her by both her Mother and Frances regarding upcoming holiday plans. Now, she would have to confront that matter head on, rather than ducking her head in the sand for the next several months.

She lightly smacked her head against the steering wheel a pair of times…

And, undoubtedly, answer questions about Remington. As was her nature when it came to Frances and Abigail, she hadn't shared the details of his problems with the INS. When asked about him she'd done a bit of tap dancing – 'he's out of town on business' – that still held to the truth. What would she say if asked? What could she say?

She sighed long and fought the urge to bop her head a couple more times against the wheel. 'If asked?' Oh, the minute she made it clear she would not be in town for the holidays, it would be asked.

She almost would have preferred that she have to go through Daniel to get the next clue…

With resolve, she opened the car door and got out, closing the door behind her. Drawing in a deep breath, she smoothed her hands over her skirt then drew herself up to full height. All the way to the door she vowed to keep her cool.

An oath she didn't manage to keep more than fifteen minutes.

"So, Mother wanted me to ask you if Remington is going to join us in Connecticut for Thanksgiving," Frances chattered conversationally, as she stirred the contents of a pot on the stove and Laura sipped her coffee at the nearby table. Laura had 'tuned out' a couple minutes past, as her sister had droned on about the heat in California during the summer.

"… and summer hasn't even started yet. Well, I don't mind telling you, Connecticut is so much nicer during the summer months…"

Laura's head jerked upwards at the last she'd heard.

"Connecticut for Thanksgiving?" she repeated.

"I swear, Laura," Frances admonished, lightly, "I don't think you pay attention to a word I say half the time. Mother has decided since she's coming here for Christmas this year, that it would be nice to have Thanksgiving in Connecticut."

"I'm not going to Connecticut for Thanksgiving," Laura replied, firmly. Even if she were going to be in town, she couldn't think of a worse way to spend the holiday. Frances gave her younger sister a disapproving look as she put a lid on the pot she'd been stirring and crossed the room to take a seat at the table across from Laura.

"Now, Laura, don't be like that. This is the first year in a long time that Donald and I, not to mention the children, won't be there—"

"I already have plans for Thanksgiving," Laura cut in. "I'll be in Europe—"

"Europe?!" Frances interrupted, clearly surprised.

"For Thanksgiving, and for Christmas as well," Laura finished.

"You're going to Europe _at the holidays_?" Frances asked, as though it were a sin to consider such a thing.

"Yes… I am," Laura replied in a manner than left no room for confusion. She took a long sip of her coffee while Frances digested the news. She looked up when she heard the kitchen door open and close, inwardly sighing with relief when Donald appeared in view.

"Laura! What a surprise," he greeted. Laura stood to exchange hugs with her brother-in-law.

"Donald, Laura's going to be in Europe for Thanksgiving and Christmas," Frances fretted, as Laura resumed her seat and Donald stepped back into the kitchen to peer at the contents in the pans on the stove.

"I had assumed she would be," he answered, nonplussed, as he picked up a spoon to test the sauce. "Mmmm, you've outdone yourself Frannie."

"What do you mean you 'assumed she would be'?" she asked, voice reaching soprano levels. Laura had to give the man credit: He never so much as blinked when Frances began working herself up. He merely shrugged his shoulders.

"With Remington there until after New Years, I figured Laura would spend at least Christmas with him." Laura's eyes widened slightly at Donald's announcement – _what exactly has he said to Donald?_ she wondered – while Frances swung her head to stare at Laura, gape mouthed.

"You didn't tell me Remington was in Europe… and for such a long time!" she accused.

"It came up rather suddenly," Laura answered, truthfully.

"And he'll be gone until _next year?_ " Frances asked, aghast.

"More than likely," Laura confirmed, with a lift and drop of her shoulder. "He'll stay as long as required of him to do so." She took another drink of her coffee as Frances looked her with disbelief.

"He can't even come home for the _holidays_?" she wondered.

"No, he can't. So I'll be spending the holidays in Europe with him." Thinking it a good diversion before she was asked of the nitty gritty on what was keeping him away for so long, she shared, "In fact, I just got back from London last night and I'll be spending the week of the Fourth in Italy with him."

"Well, no wonder Mother and I couldn't reach you!" Frances replied. "How long were you there?"

"Not long enough," she shared, truthfully. "I've decided to add several days to this next trip and if I can arrange it, I'll take two-and-a-half weeks at Christmas."

"Aren't you worried?" Frances asked, lifting a hand to finger her throat, concerned. "I remember how difficult it was for Donald and I that year before we married, while he was at school and we'd been together for two years. A long-distance relationship when everything's so new for you and Remington?" Laura lifted her eyes towards the ceiling and sighed before looking Frances in the face.

" _Try_ to remember he and I have been involved for nearly four years now," she reminded.

"That's sometimes difficult to do considering _you just_ told us." The suggestion of blame in Frances's voice rankled.

"For exactly this reason!" Laura protested. "Command Thanksgiving performances in Connecticut, which we've _never_ done before. Me, needing to account for his absences, followed by well-meaning comments on or questions about the health of our relationship. I don't want that." She lifted a hand and dropped it. "I don't need reminders of how challenging a long-distance relationship can be or warnings about the many pitfalls." She cut a hand in the air. "I'm well aware without being given reminders." She grimaced and looked away when Frances's face crumbled at the reprimand.

"I just don't want to see you get hurt," Frances said in an apologetic whisper.

"Believe me, I don't want that to happen either," Laura muttered. Donald's eyes moved back and forth between them women. A little peacekeeping seemed to be called for.

"You're worrying for nothing, Frannie," he advised, walking to her then patting her on the shoulder. "Remington knows Laura is one-in-a-million. In fact he compared her to this rare gemstone…" he snapped his fingers together a pair of times "… Royal Lav-… Royal Lavulite." She was alternately flattered by the comparison and shocked by the information Donald has revealed.

"Exactly how much do you and Mr. Steele speak to one another?" she queried. Donald laughed warmly, as he took a seat between Laura and Frances.

"Remington thought you might ask, and requested that I relay this message to you: 'Brotherhood is powerful." A laugh escaped past Laura's lips.

"Of course, he did," she replied, amused. She understood the reference immediately. Two months before, she'd been training for a triathlon. The training had required a great deal of time, and as such, she would arrive later in the morning at the office, take long lunches, and depart the office early. Remington had picked up the slack, although not happily. When he discovered the reason for her sudden irresponsibility and that Mildred had known the reason for it, he'd been equally hurt and offended.

* * *

 _ **"You're in on this, Mildred? You know what Miss Holt's up to, and you haven't told me?"**_

 _ **"Sisterhood is powerful, Chief."**_

* * *

"Just a guess, but you wouldn't happen to be here for a certain envelope, would you?" Donald grinned at his sister-in-law.

"What envelope?" Frances perked up to ask, curious now.

"You know I am," Laura smiled. "You weren't instructed to 'have a bit of fun' with me before turning it over?" Donald waved a hand at her, laughing again.

"Awww, you and I both know you'd get what you were after. I've never been able to say no to you." He took to his feet. "Be back in a jiffy."

"What envelope?" Frances repeated the question. A corner of Laura's mouth lifted in a half-smile as she reached for her purse and removed Remington's note from it.

"Last night while I was unpacking, I discovered Mr. Steele had slipped a present and this…" she handed Frances the note "…into my overnight bag." She kept silent as Frances scanned the note.

"What did the note on the box say?"

"That I should only open the box if I understand my life may be 'forever altered.'" Frances's mouth rounded in an 'o'.

"That would make me nervous. Are you going to open it?"

"I can't, at least until I solve all the clues. But when I do?" She lifted her hand and dropped it. " _Of course_ , I'm going to open it."

"It sounds like it could be something you won't like," Frances worried. The thought drew a laugh from Laura.

"The man's a romantic at heart. He's not going to give me a mystery, create this _elaborate_ build up, only to disappoint," she pointed out. "Whatever it is, he's put a good deal of time and thought into it. He wants me to do the same." Frances appeared relieved at the information.

"So what do you think it is?" Laura shrugged her shoulders. She had an idea brewing, but whether that idea was on track or not, as far as she was concerned, it was strictly between her and Remington.

"I guess I'll find out once I have all the clues." Timing, they say, is everything. Donald reappeared as she was finishing the sentence.

"Here you are," he announced holding out an envelope, an act which drew his wife's attention as well.

"Why didn't you tell me what Remington was doing?" Frances asked in an accusatory tone. Donald grimaced as he sat back down in the chair between the women.

"'The brotherhood is strong,'" Laura mocked under her breath as she pulled a piece of paper from the envelope…

And heaved a long sigh.

 _Ba mhaith liom teach, teaghlach, leatsa, agus tá súil agam gur mhaith leat é sin freisin._

"Of course," she muttered.

"What? What is it, Laura?" Frances asked, her irritation with Donald immediately forgotten. Laura shook her head and slid the paper across the table to her sister.

"Same as the first clue," she answered, letting Frances discern what she meant on her own.

"What language is this?" her sister asked in turn. "Spanish?"

"No, it's not," Laura replied, as Donald took the piece of paper and looked it over. "I have no idea what language it is, _that's_ the problem. It's hard to solve the clue when you can't actually read it. Do you have any idea, Donald?"

"None," he replied, handing her back the paper. "But even if I did—"

"Lemme guess. The brotherhood is strong?" With a sigh, she stood as she slipped the envelope into her purse next to the one from Monroe. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to betray his confidence, no matter how tempting it might be."

"You're not staying for dinner?" Frances asked, surprised.

"I can't. I have a runaway I'm trying to locate and nights are the best time to canvass Hollywood Boulevard, I'm afraid," Laura excused herself. In an instant, Frances transformed into the worried mother hen again.

"Oh, now, Laura, that's far too dangerous, she protested. "And without Remington with you? I've _seen_ the stories in the paper and Hollywood Boulevard is no place for a woman alone at night." Laura rose to her feet, battling the impulse to snap at her sister.

"I'm a licensed private detective, Frances. It's part of a job, and it's not as though it's the first time I've investigated on my own."

"I'll walk you out," Donald offered, as he gained his feet. She gave him a grateful smile. _He_ , at least, never questioned her capabilities; _he_ never pried into her private affairs. "She means well," he defended in an undertone, as they stepped outside.

"I know, I know," she sighed. "It's just neither Frances nor Mother will ever understand my line of work, let alone approve of it." She blew out a frustrated breath.

"This… runaway. Do you think she's in trouble?" Donald asked. A corner of her mouth quirked upwards. He couldn't help using the same diversionary tactics he used for Frances on her, on occasion.

"Yeah, I think she might be in real trouble," she replied, he swung open the door to the Rabbit so she could get in.

"Then, just remember to take care of yourself," he advised. With a smile, she bussed him on the cheek, then got into the car.

"I always do."

She turned over the engine in the Rabbit, and waited until Donald was safely on the drive before pulling away from the curb. She waved goodbye, absently, her mind already on the case.


	42. Chapter 42: The Missing

Chapter 42: The Missing

Four-and-a-half hours and nearly two dozen flea bag motels later, Laura still hadn't found a single person who'd seen Emma Sheffield… or at least would admit to it. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, as a horn blared and a faceless man yelled through an open car window, 'Hey, baby, you looking for a little fun?' _Not in any lifetime, creep._ It wasn't the first time on the evening she'd been called out to, catcalled or approached, and from experience she knew it wouldn't be the last.

She hit pay dirt on the twenty-third dive.

Yanking open a door near a questionable alleyway that appeared to lead to nowhere, she climbed the stairs in the darkened well, stepping into the lobby of yet another dank, damp, dirty and _stinking_ establishment that dared refer to itself as a hotel. Approaching the plexi-glass surrounded check-in desk, she rapped sharply upon the plastic and waited for the stringy-haired, middle-aged man watching an ancient television to acknowledge her. A second rap on the plastic enclosure inspired a…

"Gimme a minute!" barked in her direction, followed by a raucous laugh at whatever he was watching on the television.

Annoyed and undeterred, she rapped vigorously again. This time the intrusion was met with a loud growl, and a slur of obscenities uttered as the man pushed up from his seat, and barreled towards the hole cut in the clear partition.

"What!?" he snapped, glowering at her. Holding up a twenty dollar bill, she slapped the photocopy of Emma's picture up against the partition.

"Have you seen this girl?" The man eyed the twenty, then with a grunt, searched the desk in front of him, coming up with a pair of glasses and shoving them on.

"Cash first," he demanded. With a shove of his hand, the cash drawer shot out towards her. Her face hardened, and she smacked the picture against the window again.

"I pay for information," she retorted. The man studied her face for veracity and folded.

"Yeah. She wuz here. Nice enuf kid 'til her boyfriend turned her out then started stringing her out." Laura's heart sank to her toes.

"You said 'was'?"

"Ya, wuz. Dude got the kid a gig at Pussycats over on LaBrea. Wanted steadier clientele for her. They gots themselves set up in a place nearby for 'convenience'," he mocked, with a wink. Laura shriveled her nose at the man.

"Any idea what he has her on?"

"Look, lady, I don't ask 'n they don't tell. Ain't none of my business. Capisce?"

With utter disdain, she tossed the bill into the drawer and stalked out of the 'lobby', then back down the darkened stairwell. When she stepped out onto the street, she peered first to her left, then to her right.

 _What now?_

Before she could answer her own question, a car pulled up cockeyed to the curb in front of her.

"Hey baby, wanna give _me_ a ride? I'll make it worth your while." Fed up with the perverts cruising the boulevard and playing to their general stupidity, she pulled her PI credentials from her purse and flipping open the leather sleeve, displayed them.

"If you plan on offering me money, you'll take a ride, alright," she deadpanned. The car peeled away with a screech of tires. As she'd suspected, the clown had assumed her credentials were police identification.

Shoving her identification back in her purse, she considered what she'd learned. The Pussycat was a notorious Hollywood Gentleman's club – or strip club – that provided back rooms for 'private dances.' Given only men were permitted through the front door, the only option for her to gain entrance was to go undercover as a dancer looking for work. Yet, despite her bravado in front of Frances, she wasn't so foolish as to go in alone. The Pussycat had a reputation for trouble, and given her intention was to snatch a dancer/prostitute out from under the noses of her pimp, well….

For the first time in a while, she missed having a third investigator in the office. Yes, Mildred was currently in-training and working towards her license, but the situation was both too dangerous for the older woman, and, frankly, it would be better to have a man backing her up in this particular case.

Turning on her heel, she began walking in long legged strides in the direction where she'd left the Rabbit.

She could call Murph. She had not a single doubt he'd be willing to come up and lend her a hand, but that, too, presented its complications. While in New York for Bernice's wedding, she'd made it patently clear to Murph that Remington took precedent over _anyone_ else in her life, and if he was going to besmirch Remington their friendship would face certain peril. Still, even if that weren't the case, requesting Murph's assistance meant he'd hound her for the details on where 'Steele' was, and as far as she was concerned, Remington's current status was no one's business but hers and Remington's… well, and Mildred's, since they'd drawn her in on his problem. In the end, those details didn't matter. Murph had his own Agency he was running, and she needed to move _now_ , not a week from now.

Opening the car door, she climbed in, started the engine, then pulled the Rabbit into the slow moving traffic on the boulevard.

She had some thinking to do. But right now, if she floored it, she should make it home in time for Remington's call.

* * *

The phone rang within five minutes of Laura's arrival home, and she didn't bother with the niceties when she answered it.

"The brotherhood is strong, huh?" she greeted. "Since when have you and _my_ brother-in-law become so… chummy?"

"Brotherhood? What is that? Some kind of code for a clandestine group Steele belongs to?" Laura's back stiffened and she clamped her mouth shut at the sound of Keyes voice coming over the line.

"I thought I made it clear you were never to contact myself or Mr. Steele again, Keyes," she ground out.

"This ain't over, Holt. You and Steele screwed with my life—"

" _We_ screwed with _your life_?!" she cut him off, thoroughly appalled. "You have _got_ to be _joking_! Mr. Steele and I did nothing more than solve a case, and save _your company_ a substantial payout, and you have been after us ever since."

"My picture was one the front page of the LA Times. I was made a laughingstock, my reputation was shredded and you and Steele enjoyed every damned minute of it," he snarled in return.

"No, we did not," she retorted, appalled by the man's egocentrism. Then, realizing they'd been down this road before and that Keyes would never be able to objectively consider anything she had to offer, she snapped, "What do you want, Keyes?"

"Just thought I'd let you know I'm getting the hell out of LA," he answered, with a supercilious tone that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Oh? Permanently, I hope," she retorted. He cackled into her ear.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, I'll be back, Holt, and you and I can pick up right where we left off. Unless, of course, you'd like to reconsider you and me—"

"I'm hanging up, Keyes," she cut him off. Before she could move the phone away from her ear, his next words piqued her curiosity, even as she lamented that they had.

"Aren't you going to ask where I'm headed?"

"Hades?" she retorted. She winced when her off-handed remark was rewarded with another loud, grating laugh.

"In your dreams. No, I have a sudden overwhelming urge to see what all the fuss is about over Big Ben." Those little hairs on the back of her neck stood at full attention now, and her blood turned to ice when he continued with, "I understand we have a mutual friend there."

" _What_ is your problem, _Keyes_? Why can't you just let this go? You've already managed to get Mr. Steele deported, separating him from his business and home. What more do you want?" she demanded to know.

"Let's just say that by the time I'm done with him, your Boss will be buried six feet under, and that little Agency you love so much? You can kiss it _and your license_ goodbye right along with him." She could visualize his rancorous sneer as much as she could hear it in his tone.

"That's it!" she proclaimed. "Enough is enough! I'm calling Jarvis and asking him to move forward on the battery and trespassing charges, as well as any additional charges he can think of to add!"

"Good luck with that, Holt. My flight's just been called for boarding," he laughed.

"You have to come back sometime, Keyes," she bit out.

"Do I?" With a final, grating cackle, he hung up, leaving the dial tone droning in Laura's ear.

Stunned, she slowly lowered the handset into the cradle and slumped down to sit on the edge of her bed.

Keyes…

In London.

She jumped when the phone shrilled again. Snatching up the receiver, she was none too polite when she answered.

"What now, Keyes?!" she barked.

The second hand of her watch ticked twice before Remington bellowed…

"What do you mean 'what now, Keyes'!" _Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn_ , she lamented. She'd hoped to ease into the news of this latest development when they spoke. In his room in London, he bounded to his feet to pace as white hot fury scorched through him. "Damn it, Laura! Is he there with you now?"

"What? No. Why would I answer the phone as I did if here were here in front of me?" she questioned, logically.

"For all I know, you swung open the door to him as you were answering," he retorted immediately.

"While anchored to the wall by the phone?" she challenged, logically, then sighed and reached for her brow to knead it. "No, I'm not the one he intends to pay a visit," she advised, reluctantly. "He called me from the airport, right before boarding his flight to London." He stopped in his tracks and splayed a hand over his lower face.

"London?" he repeated, stunned disbelief calming and stupefying him, simultaneously. Like Laura not long before, he flumped down on the side of his bed. "What is the bugger up to now?"

"I don't know, and, frankly, I don't care to find out." Dropping her hand from her brow, she fingered her throat, and found the wherewithal to advise, "I think you should consider leaving for Italy sooner than later."

"I can't do that, Laura," he refused. "The Haven House will be complete soon enough and—"

"And I'm sure the Earl could find someone to stand in for you until it's completed," she interrupted, to argue. He dragged a hand through his hair, blew out a breath and prepared himself for the argument that would most assuredly come.

"Perhaps, perhaps," he seemed to agree, then threw a curve ball, "But I see no reason for him to do so as I'll be seeing it through to completion." Her hand dropped with a thud against her thigh and the thunderous scowl on her face would have had him retreating had he been there to see it.

"You see no reason?" she snapped. "The man managed to have you deported, if only temporarily. He damned near framed me for stealing millions of dollars in jewels. Whatever it is he has in mind, I can't imagine—"

"This… this…" He interrupted in a voice so soft, that she came to an abrupt stop, "This… project of the Earls, means a great deal to me. I know all too well how the streets can change a child, tear them down piece-by-piece until they are force to do whatever it takes in order to survive." He battled to say the next, a confession he'd never shared before. "Six more months at the most, Laura," his voice turned hoarse with emotion, making her heart clench, "It was all I had left in me. Afraid to fall asleep of a night in winter, for fear hypothermia would take me if I should, so damned hot on summer nights I couldn't sleep, no matter how badly I wished. Never knowing when my next bit of food might come, _if_ it would come, and a hunger that would grow so deep, there were times I'd have sworn it was gnawing through my very bones. I hope you never know a desperation so keen that you've willing to dig through people's rubbish cans, just to make that ache go away. Those streets take away a piece of you, Laura, they…. Dehumanize you. They reduce you to an animal foraging for food and fighting for your den. Then, eventually they break you. To know that the difference between those streets and having a bed to lie in, food to eat is just a few quid? Daniel saved me from finally giving in to the streets, from allowing them to turn me into just another child prostituting themselves, or just another thug selling drugs to capture those few quid that mean the difference between life and death. Haven House matters. It could very well be another child's Daniel, that thing that saves them before it's too late."

Her heart stumbled. She drew in her lower lip, and closed her eyes, a pained look on her face. She couldn't recall a time he'd said so much at a single time – unless he was telling a story or harping on about a movie, that is – and that he'd revealed more than he ever had before about those years on the streets? She understood, she did, but the thought of him there without her to watch his back, was beyond troubling.

"Remington—"

"I'm not running from this, Laura," he interrupted in a quiet, determined voice.

Whatever she'd planned to say, died on her lips as her mind traveled to a time in the past when she'd said those very words to him.

* * *

 _ **"I'm not running from this!"**_

 _ **"So don't run, but at least have the common sense to stop and catch your breath, woman!"**_

 _ **"You want to kick back on this thing? No one's stopping you."**_

* * *

She wanted to lock him in his room in London, much as he had, then, done to her in his flat. She wanted to use whatever wiles she possessed, to convince him to leave for Italy within the next day. She wanted to _scream at him_ that he was being hardheaded, overly sentimental, and not thinking of what consequences staying might bring. Instead she said…

"Then you need to speak with the Earl, to find out if he has truly erased your past as we suspect." He frowned, as he strapped on his watch, even though her concession indicated they'd argue no further on the matter this evening.

"And how do you suggest I do that?" he queried. "I can't simply ask the man."

"You're the fast-talking con-artist. Figure it out," she snapped. Perhaps, they weren't done arguing after all. He sighed loudly his frustration, meaning for her to hear.

"Lau-ra," he intoned his annoyance. This age old habit of hers of wielding who he'd once been like a sword against him when she was cross had long ago grown wearisome. She did some huffing of her own, after which an apology did not follow, but she chose to let it go…

For now.

"I went by Frances and Donald's this evening," she informed him, begrudgingly.

"Dinner with the family?" he asked with a smile.

"I think we both know that's not why I was there," she rebuked, smiling herself now as she removed her watch and lay it on the bedside table before reaching for the buttons on her blouse.

"Ah, have the next clue then do you?" Dressed for the day, he stretched out on the bed, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

"I do, and it's no more helpful than the last." Tugging off her blouse, she tossed it on the bed. He mentally reviewed what part of the message she would have received.

"Ba mhaith liom teach, teaghlach, leatsa, agus tá súil agam gur mhaith leat é sin freisin,"he recited. She stilled, again wondering how he'd managed to go four years without revealing he was multi-lingual. "Mmm. I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with you on that, love," he countered, pursing his lips with amusement, "I believe it's an integral clue. As a matter of fact, one might even say it's the core element to your little mystery." She lifted her eyes heavenward as she raised and dropped her hand, vexed. Lowering the zipper to her skirt, she slipped it off and threw it on top of her blouse.

"I wouldn't know, since I can neither read whatever language the clues are written in nor have any idea what that language is," she pursued.

"I have complete confidence you'll find your way," he said in a laughter tinged voice he knew would annoy. She mimed a strangling motion with her hands.

"Care to give me a hint?" she asked, irritation adding a sharp edge to her tone.

"The answer is at the beginning," he supplied, smile further widening. The answer drew an audible growl from her.

"I've already started at the beginning, if you'll recall," she reminded through clenched teeth, as she removed her bra and added it to the pile.

"There can be more than one beginning." He sighed again. "Take the time to enjoy this, Laura. I'm hoping you'll find the end well worth the effort, and that you may even look back on this one day fondly." She scrunched her face with regret, as she reached for her robe. He'd gone through a good deal of trouble planning this gift for her, and she was letting other frustrations prevent her from appreciating it.

"I'm sorry," she relented, as her hand swayed from robe to nightgown. She'd shower in the morning, she decided with a decisive nod of her head. She was exhausted and needed to be in the office at least a couple hours early to lend a hand with the skip traces the Agency had taken on. "I'm upset over Keyes and this case I'm working on and I'm taking it out on you." She sat back down on the side of the bed, heavily, and tugged the nightgown on over her head.

"What case?" he prodded.

"A fifteen-year-old runaway," she replied on a sigh. "If the information I have is correct, she's working the streets and using."

"See if you can get in touch with Weasel. He has some eyes and ears on the street that may be of help," he suggested.

"Already done and Monroe's asked his men with contacts on the streets to see what, if anything, they can find out." She steadied herself, prepared for him to ask where she'd discovered information, then for the lecture certain to come about canvassing the Boulevard on her own. Instead, he veered left when she expected him to come at her head on.

"Do her parents know?

"Her mother is here in LA, but, no, not yet," she admitted, as she pulled back sheet and comforter, then lay down in bed. "I'd not only like to have more than the questionable word of a desk clerk at a seedy hotel before I fill her in on what I've learned, but I also think what Amanda wishes to share…" she nodded her head, while lifting a dropping a hand, "…or not to, should be given considerable weight."

"We both know," he reminded, gently, "She may be in no condition to make such a decision."

"I know. But if she is, I don't have the right to take the choice from her," she rationalized. With a shake of her head, she changed the subject, to a hopefully more pleasant one. "What are your plans for the day?"

"Interviews of security applicants this morning, followed by an afternoon scouring the whole of London for items of nostalgia suitable for the restaurant." She raised her brows, surprised by the first.

"You won't be using an agency for the security guards?" she questioned.

"Mmmm, I think not. Haven House – or more specifically the restaurant, as you pointed out – is about the community. It seems to me if the Hannigan's are from Brixton and we're going to offer a drawing for tickets to the theater, that there are others Haven House can serve. I imagine any number of experienced security guards who live in Brixton might be eager to serve the community in which they live as well. And who better to know the riff-raff and troublemakers than the people who live there, eh?" She considered all angles of his proposal and had to admit there was an underlying genius in his plan: by providing jobs to the citizens of Brixton while promoting local business, the neighborhood would likely not only welcome Haven House but embrace it.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," she complimented, warmth infusing her words. "Have you considered buying the restaurant's fresh produce and meats locally as well? You could even sell slices of the pie of the day, purchased from bakers right there in Brixton."

"Inspired ideas, Laura. I'll speak to Thomas right away, although I imagine he'll find the thought as appealing as I," he praised. Silence lingered between them for several seconds, before he decided to simply say what was on his mind. "I miss you, Laura." She pressed a hand over her eyes and drew over in a slow breath, a feeling of profound loneliness washed over her at his words.

"I miss you, too." Despite her attempts to cloak her emotions, he heard them reverberating in her voice.

"I never would have imagined it would be so much more difficult watching you leave this time, than it was to board the plane in LA." She drew her lips in and nodded slowly.

"I know what you mean," she agreed somberly, then forced a levity into her voice she didn't quite feel. "But we'll have ten days in Italy, in under a month." He sat up abruptly, face lit in shocked pleasure.

"Ten days? Are my ears deceiving me, or did you say we'd have ten days in Italy?" She nibbled at her lower lip, tickled by the enthusiasm inspired by her surprise.

"No, you heard fine," she replied, airily. "But Mr. Steele?"

"Yes, Miss Holt?"

"You might want to give some thought to when Mildred is coming to visit and where exactly we'll be going. I don't need a put out detective-in-training on my hands." He grimaced. He hadn't exactly forgotten so much as he'd been focused on when he might next see Laura.

"Mmm, yes, I guess I should at that. Do you have a preference on the when?"

"Actually, I do. She doesn't normally have any pressing commitments over Labor Day weekend, unlike Thanksgiving and Christmas when she visits her sister and Bernard." He mentally reviewed a list of the cities and countries they'd visited with Laura's Glee Club Alumni Tour.

"How long will you have?" he questioned.

"I thought we'd fly out Thursday early evening, then return the following Tuesday." He quashed his groan of dismay. He loved Mildred dearly. In many ways she was to him the mother he never had. But with only four days to spend with Laura, he'd be playing host and tour guide much of the already too short trip.

"Then Lisbon, I think," he suggested. "The weather is ideal at the beginning of September and the city offers unlimited things to do, from taking a cruise on River Tigus, to a host of museums, not to mention the Casino. Sintra's not but an hour away and I imagine tours of Palacio Nacional de Sintra and Palacio de Pena would be remarkably appealing to Mildred. We can finish up the day with a short drive to Cascais. Mildred can shop to her heart's content and the three of us can enjoy a fine dinner in the village."

"We won't have much time alone," she forewarned. Mildred had accompanied them on the Glee Club Alumni tour, and had stuck to the couple like glue… when they weren't pawning her off on the beleaguered choir director, that is.

"Yes, I know," he said with profound regret. "Don't misunderstand, Laura. I love Mildred and have missed her greatly. But four days alone with you is not enough by half, as it is."

"We'll have the nights to ourselves," she reminded, to which he only grunted his recognition. "What if I told you," she began, teasingly, "I intend to close the office on the seventh of December and we won't reopen again until the fifth?"

"You say that now," he groused, for form, "But we both know come December you'll be unable to resist the draw of all those tedious weeks of tax preparation and filing."

"That is true," she agreed, amused by an idea that came to mind, "I suppose I could always bring the tax paperwork with me."

"The bloody hell you will," he laughed loudly. "I already have to share you with Mildred for one trip. There's not a chance I'll share you with _paperwork_ for another." With a lift of an unseen brow, he added, ruefully, "It's bad enough I already have to do that at home." She nuzzled herself more deeply into her pillow, yawning deep.

"Well," she drew out the word, "if your aversion to paperwork wasn't as legendary as your allergy to legwork maybe you'd have me to yourself in the evenings."

"Might I, now?" he challenged. "I may well have to put that theory to the test when I return home, Miss Holt."

"See to it that you do, Mr. Steele." She yawned again, signaling to him the conversation, regrettably, had come to an end.

"Sleep well, Laura."

"I intend to, Mr. Steele."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Her Holt Heart will wrap next weekend, and Holting Back will move ahead in full gear.**_


	43. Chapter 43: The Connoisseur

Chapter 43:The Connoisseur

"Alright, Mildred," Laura announced as she walked out of her office when Mildred arrived, "Hand it over." Mildred startled at the sound of the voice belonging to the true owner of the Agency. The door had been locked and she hadn't been expecting to find anyone lying in wait. She pressed a hand over her heart and drew a deep breath as her heart raced.

"Miss Holt!" she exclaimed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Laura looked at her apologetically.

"Sorry, Mildred, I didn't mean to scare you," she told the older woman sincerely.

"What are you doing here so early?" Mildred inquired as she took a seat behind her desk and stashed her purse in a drawer.

"I came in to help on the skip traces," Laura answered leaning a hip against Mildred's desk, "But apparently my help wasn't needed given you'd completed all but two of them." Mildred shook her head at her boss and gave her a sour look.

"Moore is as lazy as she is greedy. Couldn't even pick up a phone book." Laura's eyes widened.

"You're tell me most of these were in the phone book?" she asked, partly flabbergasted, partly appalled.

"Yep. All but six of her missing persons alive, well, and listed in phone books." Laura shook her head, with disbelief.

"I almost feel bad about taking her money." Mildred gave her a hard look.

"Don't be. She didn't think anything about using our time and resources to do something she couldn't be bothered with." Laura pursed her lips and nodded her head.

"Good point," she conceded, ruefully. "I finished the last two, so all that's left is charging her card the balance and having Moore come in to pick up the fruit of our labors." She clapped her hands together. "So, before the first of this morning's appointments arrive, let's have it." Mildred gave her a bewildered look, although there was a telling twinkle in her eyes.

"Have what?" she feigned lack of knowledge. Laura rolled her eyes.

"You know what, Mildred." Laura walked her fingers along the desk. "We can play this game. You can have some fun with me, as _I'm sure_ Mr. Steele told you to do. But I think we both know you're just as curious as I am about what's in that box. And without that clue, neither of us will ever know." Mildred's eyes narrowed on the younger woman and a smile twitched at her lips.

"You're good," she praised, wagging a finger for emphasis. With a resigned look, she reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Laura. Laura ripped into the envelope eagerly…

Then lifted her eyes heavenwards.

"Mildred, exactly how did Mr. Steele distribute these clues?" Mildred frowned, confused.

"The Boss called the day you left. Said he was sending me something express mail and he needed me to follow the directions inside."

"Did he tell you what he was sending you and why?"

"A surprise for you." Laura crossed her arms in front of herself while giving Mildred a doubtful look. A cat had nothing on the woman's boundless curiosity.

"And you didn't…oh… pump him for more information?"

"I gave it the old college try," Mildred admitted, then added ruefully, "And all I got for my troubles was a 'never you mind, you'll find out in due time.'" In truth, his brush off had hurt her feelings a little. She not only enjoyed being his sounding board, but the confidences he'd share with her made her feel trusted, included, valued… like a part of the little family the three had become over the years.

"I wish I knew what he was up to," Laura groused in a hug.

"Why do you think he's up to anything?" Mildred wondered. "It's just a gift."

"He's not exactly a gift giver."

"The Boss?!" Mildred exclaimed, clearly surprised by the claim. "Aw, c'mon, you're forgetting who you're talking to Miss Holt. I was here, remember? Why I've seen him shower you will rooms full of flowers—"

"While pretending to be my secret admirer so he could feign jealousy," Laura shot down.

"Whisking you off to San Francisco—"

"A ruse that he hoped would lure me into his bed," Laura reminded.

"He's always talking about the newest cookware or cutlery he gave you—"

"Bought for the kitchen, not for _me,_ and because _he_ likes to cook!" she retorted, throwing her hands up in the air. Pushing off of the desk, she began to pace.

"Aw, c'mon!" Mildred decried.

"I'm telling you, Mildred, outside of the obligatory Christmas and Birthday present, the man's only given me one gift in four years." A soft smile lifted her lips, and she laughed a single, quiet laugh. "Between you and I, I think the intimacy implied by giving makes the man nervous," she shared. Mildred laid assessing eyes on her.

"I get the feeling 'getting' makes you as nervous as you say giving makes him," she observed, amused. Laura held up her hands and dropped them in concession.

" _Of course_ it does, Mildred. The gift alone," she elongated the last word as she paced away from the desk, "Is out of character for the man, but first the Whispering Gallery and, now, _this_?!" She held up the envelope for emphasis. Mildred's eyes widened with curiosity at that piece of information.

"The Whispering Gallery?" she wondered. Laura waved a dismissive hand.

"A place he took me while we were in London. It's quite a popular destination for tourists." Under her breath she added, "And I can see why." Then collecting herself, continued on. "But that's neither here nor there. _Why_ this big buildup? _That's_ the question. And not knowing the answer? You're damned right I'm nervous." Mildred propped her chin in her hand.

"I think it's romantic," she commented, dreamily.

"It is," Laura sighed in answer, then shook off the feeling. "But why can't the man just get straight to the point?!" She flopped down in a reception area chair with a growl. Laughing, Mildred, got to her feet and crossed the room.

"Oh, honey, with all the tap dancing you and the Boss have done around each other all these years, it's no wonder it makes you nervous." She sat down on the sofa catty-corner to Laura's chair. "But a little piece of advice from an old... –er woman, who knows from experience that romance is almost extinct: _Enjoy it!_ "

"That's what he says," Laura grumbled, then sighed long and hard before forcing a light note to her voice. "Alright, so now that I have all three clues, I just have to find this 'connoisseur with a gift of gab' and decipher them."

"Decipher?" Mildred asked, a quizzical look on her face. Laura handed her the envelope.

"Have a look for yourself," she offered.

"Oh, honey, I couldn't. This is between you and Mr. Steele," Mildred refused with a shake of her head.

"No, no, go ahead," Laura insisted, with a wave of her hand. "You won't be intruding. _Believe me._ " Mildred examined Laura's face then with reluctance opened the envelope and removed the paper. Her brows furrowed as she scanned the slip of paper.

"I see what you mean. What is this? French?" Laura tossed her hands up in the air.

"I have no idea!" she replied. "But whatever it is, it's not French _or_ Spanish. So in order to solve the clues, I have to solve _this_ first."

"The Boss won't give you a hint?" Laura took to her feet again.

"I asked, and all he'll say is 'start at the beginning,'" she voiced her frustration. "Now I need to find someone who can translate _whatever_ language this might be."

"Like this 'connoisseur with a gift for gab'?" Laura stopped mid-pace and spun to look at Mildred, her eyes bright with understanding.

" _Of course_!" she exclaimed. "Mildred, do you think you could find language experts _other than_ French and Spanish at the local universities on that computer of yours?" Mildred smiled wide, while pushing herself up off the couch.

"In a snap," she promised, quickly returning to her desk and booting up her system. In short order, while Laura paced again, her fingers were dancing across the keyboard. "All I need to do is access California's database of professors teaching in public universities…" her fingers quickly tapped over the keys again "…set up a query for those who teach languages, then…" she snapped her fingers "…voila."

"Eliminate anyone who teaches Chinese, Japanese and Hebraic," Laura instructed.

"Will do," Mildred agreed, her fingers on the move again as Laura came to stop behind the older woman and leaned down to peer over her shoulder. "Got it." Laura reached past Mildred and lay her index finger on the screen, scanning down the impressively long list, then stabbed at it.

"Start at the beginning!" she announced, pleased to realize Remington had, in fact, given her a hint she could work with.

"Gaelic?" Mildred questioned. "Are you sure it's not Italian or—" Laura stood up and rounded the desk, reaching for the envelope and her purse.

"Start at the beginning," Laura said in a manner that suggested Mildred should be following along. "Mr. Steele was born in Ireland, Mildred!" She smiled wide. "Get me the man's number, and while I'm calling him, you can call Miss Moore and let her know the information she hired us to find is ready for her." Mildred muffled a groan of dismay at the second.

"You got it." Laura stopped at the door to her office and turned to look at the other woman.

"Oh, and Mildred, you wouldn't happen to have plans for Labor Day weekend, would you?" Mildred laughed aloud.

"Aw, June's just started. I don't have Fourth of July plans yet, never mind Labor Day." Laura lifted her brows at Mildred.

"Well, you do now, so save the date," she replied mysteriously.

"And what exactly are my plans?" Mildred asked with suspicion.

"Why don't you ask Mr. Steele when he calls this afternoon," Laura suggested, then waltzed through her office door. "Get me that number."

In her office, Laura laid her purse on the desk. Once seated, she regarded the gift still sitting on the corner of her desk. As she'd told Donald the evening prior, she had her suspicions as to what awaited her inside of that box. Remington had been hinting for months that he wanted more time. If she were correct, the contents would reveal a key – the second one that he'd given her during their association. While the first had been more in the way of a promise, this one would be in the way of a suggestion and would require commitment.

Was she ready to cohabitate with a man again, after her first attempt had led to abandonment, heartbreak? She'd spent a good deal of time dwelling on that question in the back of her mind the past day, and the answer was always the same: Yes, with _this_ man.

To do so would certainly be life-altering as the scrawled note on the box had suggested. The loft and his flat would have to go on the market. He detested the flights of stairs that led to her loft, and while the space suited her perfectly, he'd disliked the industrial feel of the building and the neighborhood in general on sight. True, she'd turned the loft into a warm and welcoming home over the years, one in which he felt quite comfortable, but there were larger issues at hand. The kitchen was not nearly spacious enough for him, the bathroom far too tiny for them to share, and the loft was not ideal to host dinner parties for business. Then there was the matter of privacy. The fully open floor plan extended to no walls or doors even in the bedroom. How often had one or the other of them offered a client the sanctuary of their homes during the course of a case? She wouldn't feel comfortable doing so if it meant she and Mr. Steele were on full display as they slumbered and she suspected he wouldn't be either. At the end of the day, they were a couple who valued discretion, who believe in keeping their private life… well, private.

The Rossmore condo provided a suitable kitchen, the perfect space for hosting, and the privacy they'd need, but it, too, was lacking in two key areas. Firstly, in closet space. The double closets in the bedroom were perfect for a confirmed bachelor – although maybe not this one, as twice a year he sent clothes he deemed 'out of season' to storage to make room for that season's wardrobe – but that closet space was not enough by half for a couple with a very varied wardrobe to share. More importantly, there was no room for her piano, and she was not willing to leave it behind…

Nor would he ask her to.

The only solution then would be to find a place that met both their wants and needs.

It would be a big change – a frightening one even, in a way – but the idea of moving their relationship ahead, despite the challenges involved, held an undeniable appeal.

"Here ya go, Miss Holt," Mildred announced, as she stepped into Laura's office.

"Thanks Mildred," Laura replied, taking the piece of paper from her. "Would you mind closing my door on your way out?"

"Sure thing."

She waited until the door clicked shut behind Mildred then crinkled her nose as she picked up the phone to dial it. _Why not?_ she silently groused. _First he sends me off to my sister's house and now to UCLA._

"UCLA Center for World Languages, may I help you?" a friendly female voice greeted on the other side of the line.

"Good Morning. This is Laura Holt with Remington Steele Investigations. Is Professor Hughes in this morning?" Laura inquired.

"Hold, please, and I'll transfer you." Laura wasn't even given a chance to thank the woman, before the line was ringing in her ear again. _So much for friendly_ , she mused. On the fifth ring, an answering machine picked up.

" _You have reached the office of Dr. Patrick Hughes—"_ Frustrated, Laura hung up the phone and thrummed her fingers against the desktop. She had back-to-back appointments this morning, and would be rushing out the door as soon as the last of those were complete. As far as she was concerned, this was no time to play phone tag. Picking up the receiver, she dialed again.

"UCLA Center for World Languages, may I help you?" that same friendly sounding voice answered.

"Good morning. This is Laura Holt with Remington Steele Investigations. Can—"

"Hold, please," that increasingly irritating voice requested.

A split second later, before she could utter an objection, Laura was listening to elevator music. _Damn._

"Miss Holt, I'll transfer you to Dr.—"

"No, please don't," Laura jumped in. "Can you just please tell me what Dr. Hughes's office hours are for the remainder of the week?"

"Hold, please." Laura's lip curled and she made a choking motion with her hand. Phone etiquette was becoming a lost art. "Dr. Hughes's office hours today are from ten a.m. until noon and one p.m. until three p.m., tomorrow eight a.m. until ten a.m. after which time he will depart for vacation for two weeks."

"Thank you. I appre—"

"Have a good day," the woman wished, then abruptly disconnected the line.

With a roll of her eyes and a puff of disgust, Laura hung up the phone. _UCLA, pfffttttt._ Another strike against the school as far as she was concerned. Her mood only soured further when the realization set in that a visit to UCLA was not in the cards on this day. She had meetings at the Agency until noon, then in the afternoon there was Baumgartner's security system to contend with and a hopeful audition at Pussycats.

She shuddered with revulsion.

It was one thing to do a fan dance on a bar in Acapulco when fortified with a good deal of tequila and quite another to put on a performance in the heart of Los Angeles stone cold sober. How many degenerates with whom she and Remington had past dealings might be there? Granted, going in undercover was a necessary evil, but it wasn't one to which she was looking forward.

Shoving aside her aggravation over clues that would remain unsolved and a gift that would remain unopened for at least another day and her revulsion over the evening ahead, she took a deep breath and let it out with a rush. Standing, she smoothed hands over skirt.

It was time to get the day officially underway.


	44. Chapter 44: Confidences

Chapter 44: Confidences

"Harry, my boy!" Daniel greeted effusively. "Don't tell me you actually plan on dining in this evening. Scotch?" He held the crystal decanter aloft.

"Don't mind if I do ," Remington accepted, crossing the room as Daniel splashed a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a matching crystal tumbler. "Thank you." He held the cup aloft for a brief second in a mock salute, then crossed the room to sit in a wing chair.

"So, to what do I owe this honor?" Daniel asked, as he joined his protégé, taking a seat upon the sofa across from him. Remington lifted and dropped a careless shoulder.

"It would seem advisable that I lay low until I depart for Italy." Daniel's brows lifted in curiosity.

"Might I inquire as to why?" Remington tipped his glass to his lips and took a long draw of the biting liquid. Setting aside the glass, he puffed out a breath as he got to his feet to pace.

"Ah, it would seem the buggering prick responsible from setting in motion the events that saw me evicted from the States has decided to pay me a visit here in London," he shared as he drew a hand through his hair.

"How on earth did you discover this?" Daniel wondered. Remington glanced at him while lifting a hand to gnaw at his thumb.

"Keyes made it a point to ring Laura up while awaiting boarding at LAX."

"Dare I ask what it is the man wants?" Daniel asked, taking a sip of his scotch.

"To remove what he sees as an impediment between him and all that he wants: Power, prestige and big, fat paydays." Daniel nodded his head in recognition.

"And I imagine he views you as that impediment?" Remington did some nodding of his own, still gnawing at that nail.

"Laura and I have bested him on a couple of cases now." He raised his brows at his mentor. "Let's just say, he wasn't appreciative of our efforts. The idea of having to report to me appears to have been the last straw."

"It occurs to me, Harry, as much as your Linda—" Daniel raised a hand in concession in response to the blackened look cast upon him by his protégé "—Laura," he corrected, "Enjoys condemning me for putting your life, limb and freedom on the line by schooling you as I did, that by comparison, you found all three in peril far less often then than you have since she cast the role of Remington Steele upon you." Remington glowered at the obvious enjoyment Daniel found in that thought.

"Laura didn't 'cast the role' upon me, Daniel," he admonished, pointing a finger at the other man. "I swiped it right out from beneath her pretty little nose… and have spent a good many years paying for that deed, amongst others." He stopped gnawing his thumbnail in favor of swiping at his face in frustration. "Although you're not necessarily wrong about us having collected our fair share of degenerates who'd like a piece of our hides."

"If the Palermo brothers had been committed as this Keyes fellow…" Daniel left the thought dangling for Remington to complete on his own.

"Mmm, yes," he agreed, he agreed with a laugh. "They could have benefited with a lesson or two in persistence from the likes of Keyes and DesCoine. Thank the good Lord they were never given that opportunity." The moment of levity passed. "In truth, Daniel, I'm as worried about what I might do to Keyes should he cross my path as I am what he has in store for me this time 'round." A smile flickered on Daniel's lips as he took another sip of his drink.

"Fed up with the bloke's shenanigans, are you?" Remington gave him a look that suggested he'd gone mad.

"Shenanigans?" he repeated, aghast. "Even if I could find it pardonable," that finger pointed again, "And I can't, that he'd managed to separate me from my job, my home and Laura, that he first put his hands on Laura then tried to frame her for the theft of millions in jewels?" Daniel's eyes narrowed on Remington.

"Put his hands on Laura you say?" His voice held a dangerous edge. Fan of Laura or not, what few principals Daniel possessed were deeply ingrained and foremost amongst those: A man ought never raise a hand to woman or child, or lay their hands, uninvited, upon a lady.

"Yes," Remington said on a sigh. "Made her an indecent proposition, in my presence no less, then groped her."

"And he lived to tell the tale?" Daniel asked in an amazed tone.

"I broke the bugger's nose and Laura put a rather sharp heel through his foot for his troubles," Remington laughed, then, again, grew somber. "I would have done far more if not out of respect for Laura and Mildred. And look what came out of that concession: Laura nearly set up and the bugger on his way here." He stopped pacing at the fireplace and leaned an elbow against it while rubbing at his lower face with a hand, his frustration palpable.

"What brings the man here? Any idea at all?" Remington tilted his hand away from his face then back again.

"Laura is inclined to believe it has to do with those passports of mine that the Yard confiscated last year." Daniel lifted a single brow in surprise.

"How is it this… Keyes… even knows of them?" The censorious tone of Daniel's question made Remington grimace.

"He tossed my room while we were in Vegas on a case two years back," he admitted, reluctantly.

"I taught you better than that, my boy," Daniel admonished.

"Yes, well it seems we've _both_ been remiss in honoring that lesson, haven't we, Colonel Frobish?" Remington shot back. Daniel appeared puzzled for an instant, then laughed boisterously when the reference clicked.

"I'd quite forgotten that slip on my part," he conceded, good-naturedly, "Although I can't imagine why. Linda always manages to ferret out the details and insert herself into my plans."

"And thank God she has, elsewise our gooses might have been cooked on more than one occasion!" Remington defended, passionately then held up a hand in a peace offering, not wishing to pursue this particular vein of conversation yet again. "Daniel you've developed quite the friendship with the Earl these last months, have you not?"

"I'd like to think so, yes," Daniel confirmed.

"Exactly how much does the man know of…" Remington licked his lips and swallowed hard "…my past?"

"Why do you ask?" Daniel danced around the question.

"Why is it that Scotland Yard never followed up on the names on those passports?" Remington questioned, bluntly. Daniel enjoyed a long swig of his scotch before answering.

"Harry, you know how bureaucracies can be," he reminded. "I should think you'd count their oversight in your favor." Remington pushed away from the fireplace, shaking his hand and rubbing at his face again.

"Mmmm, sorry, I'm not buying that. Lombard strikes me as a man who is nothing if not thorough." He picked up his tumbler of scotch and took a drink. "No, there's more to it."

"You've been playing private detective too long, Harry, and are beginning remind me of Linda," Daniel laughed, as he got to his feet and walked back to the bar.

"Oh, how's that?"

"Suspicious and annoyingly persistent," Daniel informed him while picking up the scotch decanter.

"If that's what it takes to get the truth!" Remington retorted. "Now damn it, Daniel, just answer my question: Why didn't the Yard follow up on those passports!?" Daniel's back straightened almost imperceptibly, as he carefully measured another finger of scotch into his glass. The jig was up and he knew it… at least part of it was.

"You have the best instincts of anyone I've ever made acquaintance of, my boy. Your Linda has merely refined them," Daniel replied, by way of backhand compliment. "So, tell me why you think it is the Yard chose to…" he waved a hand in the air "…overlook the, um, 'irregularities' those passports may have revealed."

"The Earl instructed them to," Remington answered, confidently.

"Well, there you go then," Daniel grinned, slapping Remington on the shoulder as he passed.

"Oh, no, we're not done yet, old man," Remington retorted, shrugging away from the older man's hand. "There are more questions than just the one that I want answers to, beginning with: How much does the Earl know about my past?"

"Well, a good deal," Daniel replied in a way that suggested Remington should know as much. "As you're well aware, three of the identities on those passports were linked to an assortment of, shall we say, events of interest." Remington grimaced. The Earl's respect meant a great deal to him, and Daniel's confirmation that the man knew of those… misdeeds… left him, well, rather embarrassed, in truth. He drew a hand through his hair and turned to look at Daniel.

"Were linked." Remington jumped on the implications of that particular phrasing. "As in past. Did the Earl instruct the Yard to overlook those… 'events of interest' as well?" Daniel smiled, widely.

"Oh, he did far more than that, my boy. The history of the identities on those passports are… well… history," Daniel crowed with a dramatic wave of his arm. Remington turned a pair of stunned blue eyes on his mentor.

"You mean…?" He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"All of it, gone, eradicated," Daniel pronounced. "And those who have even the slightest recollection of any of those identities instructed to forget what they know, or face the wrath of the Earl." Remington knew a glimmer of hope at the thought his past could never be linked to his life now, but just as quickly it faded away.

"No… No… No…" he refuted waving his hand. "It's not possible. Corinthos with Polizia di Stato..." he snapped his fingers together several times then pointed a finger at Daniel, "…Liú from Interpol, "They've devoted years of their lives to investigating a few of my ventures. Why ever would they agree to… to… to _heed_ the instruction?"

"The man is tenth in line to the throne, Harry!" Daniel scolded. "No one is willing to risk having the displeasure of the British Monarchy aimed at them. If not at their pleasure, then an Agency might discover British authorities most uncooperative in the future when called upon." Unable to allow himself to believe, Remington scrubbed at his face again while shaking his head.

"No. It can't be true," he voiced his disbelief aloud. "Why on earth would the Earl go to such lengths _for me?_ "

"You saved his life, Harry!" Daniel exclaimed the reminder.

"Yes," Remington drew the word out, "And we were more than amply rewarded then for services rendered. But _this?_ It goes well beyond a token of appreciation. There's something more. I can _feel_ it. So what is it Daniel?!" Daniel laughed aloud.

"Oh, I can't tell you that. I'd be betraying the Earl's confidence, Harry." It was Remington's turn to laugh – sarcastically.

"You're a confidence man, Daniel," he challenged. "You don't keep people's secrets, you exploit them."

"Mm, yes, I suppose you have me there," Daniel conceded, good naturedly, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Well, then, he feels a certain… kinship… towards you and, as such, wants only the best for you." Remington's brows furrowed.

"Kinship?" Remington repeated, flabbergasted. "That hardly makes sense. The man and I had enjoyed a singular conversation with one another," he swiped a hand over his mouth, "A rather painful conversation at that, should you recall. How could the man have possibly felt a _kinship_ for me?"

"You gave him _hope,_ Harry!" Traipsing back over grounds of one of the more painful landscapes of his life turned Remington's nerves raw.

"Just how in the bloody hell did I give the man hope, Daniel?!" he demanded to know, voice rising. "He thought me to be the son he'd been searching for, only to discover I wasn't!"

"You _survived,_ Harry," Daniel volleyed, equal in his passion. "No matter how many homes you passed through, no matter how long you were on the streets, you _survived._ For the first time in three decades, the man has real hope he may one day have the relationship with his son as he'd always dreamed. The man simply didn't want the past to define your future!" Stunned by Daniel's slip, Remington rubbed at the back of his neck with a palm. He felt betrayed, and that feeling was reflected in his voice when next he spoke.

"Exactly how often have you discussed _my life_ with the Earl, old man?" Daniel was late on the uptake, but hearing the strain in his protégé's voice, he tried to appease.

"Come now, my boy, you're making far more of this than what it was. Once, perhaps twice, we spoke of your—"

"My life should never have been a topic of discussion at all!" Remington roared. "There are parts of my childhood, my days on the streets, that Laura doesn't even know the whole of, because I haven't found a way to tell her. But it is my choice – _my choice_! – what someone does or does not know, _not yours_!"

"Be reasonable, Harry, I was only trying to offer the man a bit of comfort," Daniel entreated.

"To offer him comfort, or to worm your way into his trust so that you might help yourself to some of his priceless baubles?" Remington disputed. He drew both hands over his face then through his hair. "My God," he breathed with horror, as things began to fall into place, "I thought you'd merely made mention of how we came to meet one another there in Brixton, and it never even occurred to me to mind. Never, in my wildest of dreams, did it occur to me that you might have told him the whole of what you know."

"Harry, try to believe me when I say it's not quite what you think. I merely—"

"Tell me, Daniel, did you tell Thomas how I'd guzzle down the food set before me when you first took me in, unsure how long the food would last, if it would last," Remington demanded to know, his tone turning cooler with each word spoken. "Did you tell him of how I placed a chair under the knob of a door every night for near on a year, certain you'd appear one night to extract the price for your generosity and me unsure of what I'd do, if that was the price demanded to keep food in my stomach and a bed to sleep in. Did you—"

"You're letting your imagination run away with you, Harry!" Daniel interrupted to protest.

"Even if I were, what precisely the Earl knows matters little, it's that he knows anything at all!" Remington rante. "And here I thought the Earl of Claridge, tenth in line to the throne of England, a member of the peer, saw _me_ as somewhat of an equal, when in fact, he _pitied_ me!" His skin blanched as another thought came to mind. " _My God_ ," he drew out the words with disgust, "And believing he saw _me! -_ the man I've become not that scrawny street rat you pulled from the street – I treated him as one would a _friend:_ Preparing meals with the man; sharing some confidences of my own; even…" he dragged a shaking hand through his hair again, "Even taking Laura 'round when she was here. Oh, how—"

"Harry—" Daniel interrupted to beseech, to attempt to explain again.

"Save it, Daniel," he snapped. He opened his mouth to speak and found he didn't have the words. With a flip of his hand towards his mentor and a exhale of disgust, he turned and left the room before he said something that would always stand between them.


	45. Chapter 45: Associations

Chapter 46: Associations

"Tell me, Laura, how is Mick handling his exile?" Monroe asked, as he dug through the maze of wires in the alarm system panel looking for the shorted wire. Behind him, Laura pursed her lips, choosing her words wisely. As far as she was concerned, it was up to Remington to decide whether or not he wished to share with anyone his struggles in the wake of his voluntary deportation.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she answered with care. "Keeping busy, planning a vacation. Are you certain it's a short?" She redirected the conversation back to the job with practiced ease.

"According to the alarms, all the false signals have come from the same window. That contacts are sound so I imagine—Ah, yes, here we are," he announced as he pulled a pair of capped wires and studied them. "You might wish to inform your client he has a rodent problem," he advised, pointing to an area on the wires "Mice, I'd wager." Crouching down, he examined the panel. "In the meantime, a bit of sealant here," he indicated a spot as she bent over to look, "Should prevent the vermin from feasting upon the system again."

"Alright, I'll speak to Mr. Baumgartner before we leave."

She glanced at the watch on her wrist and did some quick mental calculations. She and Monroe were far ahead of schedule. Her eleven-thirty appointment had pulled a no-show, so they were able to leave as soon as he'd arrived. The issue with the system would be resolved quickly, given he was even now stripping the wires and splicing them together. If traffic cooperated, she could conceivably be at UCLA by one-forty-five, and back to the office in plenty of time for-

"Laura?" Her face heated when she realized Monroe was looking expectantly at her for an answer to a question he must have posed.

"I'm sorry. Lost in thought, I guess," she apologized. "Would you mind repeating the question?"

"I inquired as to the status on your young runaway. Have you any leads yet?"

"Actually I do. The night clerk at the Royale Inn – Do you know the place?" she wondered.

"The flea pit near Hollywood and Vine, if memory serves." She nodded her head in affirmation.

"That's the one. The clerk said the girl's working out of Pussycats." He paused with his work on the wires, his eyes roaming over her face. Reading her, she recognized. Remington did the same often enough. And much like his old mate, he picked up something in her carefully schooled expression that left his eyes slightly narrowing.

"Pussycats is a gentleman only club," he noted, casually, as he resumed splicing the wires together. "Have you a plan to circumvent that little conundrum?"

"Well, it's not _exclusively_ a gentleman only club," she corrected, with a crafty smile. "At least not if you're part of the entertainment." His eyes barely flickered in her direction as he capped off the wires.

"Entertainment? Surely, you don't mean…?"

"Whether I like it or not, it's part of the job," she answered, smoothly. "My audition is at six. Should all go well, I hope to have Emma out of there and safely with her mother by night's end."

"Forgive me for asking, but is Mick aware of your intentions?" he inquired, dropping all pretense of detached interest. She sighed, inwardly.

"I haven't exactly had an opportunity to discuss it with him," she answered breezily, as he tucked the repaired wiring away, then closed and secured the panel. "If you'll give me a minute, I'll go have that discussion with Mr. Baumgartner." Having excused herself, she went in search of the client.

It had been her hopes that Monroe would have set aside any ideas about quizzing her further on her plans for that evening. What a futile hope that was, for as soon as she joined him outside, he pursued the matter.

"With Mick elsewhere, should I assume you intend to, as he would say, 'go it alone'?" She shrugged a single shoulder.

"My options for a partner are limited and I don't think Mildred's the ideal partner on this one," she replied as she walked around the Rabbit and opened the driver's side door.

"Then might I offer my services, instead?" he suggested as he sat in the passenger seat and closed the car door. She tried not to let her irritation show.

"I appreciate the offer, but if Mick asked you to keep an eye out for me, it's not necessary."

"He knows he needn't ask. It is our way," Monroe corrected the assumption. "The Pussycat is safe for neither man nor beast, somewhere that even in our wildest of days Mick and I would never have ventured, knowing trouble wouldn't be far behind. Were Mick here, he would be with you every step of the way. Allow me the honor of doing the same, in his stead."

She stared at him at length, trying to decide if the offer stemmed from a chauvinistic belief that women couldn't take care of themselves or if it was made for no other reason than to honor an abiding, decade-and-a-half long friendship. Starting the engine of the Rabbit, she put the car in gear and pointed it in the direction of Century Towers, while evaluating the suggestion from all directions. In the end, her decision was made on the basis of one solitary attribute: This was Monroe. There were few people upon whom Remington would bestow the title friend, and that he referred to Monroe as such meant he not only trusted the man, but that they were cut from similar cloth. Remington had never attempted to sideline her because he questioned her abilities as a woman. No, he'd only tried to dissuade her when he believed the risk was too great, to any man _or_ woman, most notably when venturing out alone. Monroe would be no different.

"Alright," she agreed, "But under one condition: This remains between you and me. I don't want Mick worrying that he's not here to partner me." _Or to try and talk me out of it,_ she acknowledged, silently. As amused as he'd been to learn of her fan dance on that bar in Acapulco, he'd never been comfortable with her using either her body or womanly wiles in the course of a case. He was, quite simply, a bit too possessive of her to feel otherwise.

"You have my word," Monroe pledged.

"Then, I accept."

With that, the pair exchanged a smile, and chatter turned to her trip to London.

* * *

Placing a flattened palm against her stomach, Laura drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was inexplicably nervous. Then again, why wouldn't she be, she rationalized. Once the clues she held in her hand were deciphered, there was a life altering decision that would need to be made. Nothing to be nervous about there, right?

She drew in a second breath, patting her stomach, then, as she let that breath out, raised her hand and rapped on the door.

"Enter!" a booming, masculine voice from beyond the wood and glass ordered. Plastering a smile on her face, she swung open the door, and entered the room with a confident stride.

"Dr. Hughes?" she greeted in question, offering an outstretched hand. He stood and grasped her hand in his.

"At your service. And you might be?" His warm, brown eyes and welcoming smile relaxed her immediately.

"Laura Holt with the Rem—"

"Ahhh, yes, Miss Holt, I've been expecting you," he interrupted, genially. "Please, have a seat."

"You know Mr. Steele, then?" she inquired, as she took the offered seat.

"We've run into one another at several functions across the years, always with great pleasure on my end, might I add. It's seldom I find someone with whom I can converse in my native tongue." She tipped her head slightly to the side.

"Functions?" The man laughed and flipped a casual hand.

"I represent the Department as a committee member on many charitable endeavors," he explained. "Steele seems to find himself doing the same, although I often get the impression he does so begrudgingly." Her laugh was genuine.

"You're very perceptive. The Agency supports any number of philanthropic organizations. Mr. Steele is more… enthusiastic, shall we say… about some than he is others," she noted, then shifted the conversation to sate her curiosity. "You mentioned Mr. Steele and yourself often converse in your native tongue? What language would that be?"

"Why Gaelic, of course," he replied in a tone that suggested it should be readily obvious. She took in his dark hair, eyes and skin tone, while considering his surname.

"Irish on your mother's side then?"she speculated. He laughed, genially, once again.

"On both sides," he corrected.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I just assumed. Hughes is commonly considered an English name, is it not?"

"You are correct. My mother's maiden name is O'Shannahan, which I think we can agree is a common surname from the Isle." She nodded her agreement.

"I would say so, yes."

"When my paternal grandparents emigrated here in 1938, it was a common practice for Ellis Island officials to Anglicize the name of new arrivals, in the belief it would help the families assimilate more quickly to their new home. Thus, O'Haodha became…" He trailed off, allowing her to finish the thought herself.

"Hughes," she concluded. He hummed his affirmation, as he stood and circled the desk, then partially perched himself on the edge of it, crossing his arms.

"I imagine my appearance seems at odds with my heritage as well?" Amusement danced in his eyes, as she shifted slightly in her seat, having been caught in her thoughts.

"I suppose it shouldn't given Mr. Steele's own appearance doesn't resemble the archetypical Irish stereotype."

"My family hails from a line referred to in some circles as 'Black Irish,' for rather obvious reasons," he shared. "Dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin – at least in comparison to that stereotype you mentioned of light eyes, brown or red hair, and fair skin."

"And Mr. Steele? Would he be what you'd call 'Black Irish' as well?" She couldn't help herself. She was unable to resist any glimpse into Remington's past, even if it was only his genetic history.

"Anything is possible, although I highly doubt it. While his dark hair might suggest that he is, his light eyes, fair complexion and high cheekbones suggest otherwise. Now, Steele mentioned you might need my assistance on a matter. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Steele has sent me on a… scavenger hunt, for lack of a better word," she replied as she opened her purse and pulled out the three slips of paper collected. "The clues I have collected should tell me the contents of a gift he left for me, but Mr. Steele like to keep things interesting. If I'm correct, these clues are written in Gaelic." She handed him the slips. He quickly scanned each, then looked up at her in surprise.

"You are correct in assuming this is Gaelic," he confirmed. "But are you certain you wish me to translate this?" She straightened slightly in her seat.

"Is there a reason I wouldn't?" she asked, by way of answer.

"Well, at a quick glance, it is of a remarkably personal nature," he cautioned. She inwardly grimaced, although she remained remarkably placid on the exterior. There were days she wasn't sure what Remington was thinking.

" _How_ personal?" she asked, warily, drawing a guffaw from the professor.

"Oh, nothing like you seem to be wondering. He's the romantic heart of a good Irish lad," he assured.

"It seems I don't have a lot of choice. Otherwise this little mystery of his will never be solved." With a nod, he stood and walked around his desk. Once seated, he removed a sheet of paper from his drawer, along with an envelope that he handed to her.

"Remington asked that I give you this, should you choose to move forward on the translation." The sight of another envelope with the familiar scrawl on the front drew a sigh from her.

"Of course, he did. Well, if it's another clue in Gaelic, at least I'm in the right place," she noted, begrudgingly, peeling open the envelope as Hughes began scribbling the translation of the clues to paper.

She slowly opened the single piece of stationary contained within…

Her breath caught when there, in his familiar handwriting, was not another clue but a note to her, very much in English.

 _You'll need the box and a bit of privacy I suspect, love, before you read the translation Patrick provides.  
_

She drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, as she unconsciously patted her abdomen, soothing the kaleidoscope of butterflies that erupted in her stomach in response to what he'd written. The note only solidified her suspicions that Remington was done dropping hints and intended to address the issue head on.

"Here you are, Miss Holt." She flinched, startled to realize she hadn't even been aware of Hughes returning to stand before her. With a blink of her eyes, she took the envelope extended to her in hand then stood.

"Thank you. I appreciate you taking time out of what I'm sure is a busy day to do this for me." She held out a hand to him. He clasped it between both of his hands.

"It was truly a pleasure. I'm just glad I could render some assistance." He squeezed her hand once, then released it and escorted her to the door. "Go n-eirí an t-ádh libh." A soft smile lifted her lips.

"That's lovely. What does it mean?"

"Good luck to you both," he translated. She lay a soft hand against the older man's upper arm.

"Thank you," she told him in a soft, sincere voice.

Then, with an efficient nod of her head, she walked down the hallway that would lead her to the elevator and the start of her journey back to the office.

* * *

Remington yanked back the sheet on the bed and climbed in, before reaching for the handset of the phone.

For most of the evening he'd felt distressingly like the sixteen-year-old lad he'd once been after he and Daniel had engaged in a terrific row. He'd stayed within the confines of his room until Daniel had left for the evening, prowling like a caged panther, alternately cursing Daniel's betrayal and lamenting that yet another of Laura's expectations had taken root within him: Not running from his problems. Normally he'd count the latter to his betterment, but not on this night when what he wished most to do was to get as far away from London as he possibly could.

Once he was certain the house was empty, he'd journeyed down to the kitchen, where he helped himself to leftovers, warming them in the conveniently located microwave. As he sat alone at the kitchen table, hunched over his food, he'd spent time questioning if his anger was more a matter of pride than over Daniel's indiscretions, and finally decided it was due to a healthy dose of both. He'd worked damned hard to become Remington Steele and had believed the Earl and he had a relationship built on mutual respect. Sure, the Earl knew he was born a bastard...

And apparently knew of his inglorious past…

But he didn't feel either of those two things were insurmountable. As to the first, the Earl had spent more than three decades searching for the bastard child he'd fathered and lost. The man was hardly in a position to judge him for being a bastard himself. As for the second? Only three of the names on his passports had caught the eyes of the authorities: Richard Blaine, Michael O'Leary and Paul Frabrini. He'd already rectified the presumed misdeeds of Blaine, the name he'd been using when he'd stolen the Marchessa Collection while in Mexico: The twenty-five million dollar finder's fee Laura and he had given up to the Mexican authorities had led to a dismissal of the charges there. Michael O'Leary, who'd stolen _The Five Nudes of Cairo_. Given he'd been hired by the company who'd insured the painting to recover it, even if he were officially charged with its theft, there was no way the charges would stick. And Fabrini? Well, Fabrini muddied the waters a bit, but he felt fairly confident he'd have been able to convince the authorities he was the equivalent of the modern day Robin Hood when it came to the disappearance of those particular baubles.

In truth, his inglorious past wasn't all that… inglorious. He'd never been what one might refer to as a 'common' thief. He and Laura had committed similar acts over the years, as a matter of fact, with justice in mind – instead of a walloping payday in the form of a recovery fee. He'd never been interested in stealing just to steal. It was far too messy for his tastes and brought with it a risk that when calculated that was far too high for his liking. And frankly, a common theft wasn't challenging enough for his tastes. No, he'd craved the big jobs – and the big payday that had followed – and those came with a contract in hand… and left him holding nothing but a check when the job was done.

Yes, neither status at birth nor the past he'd walked away from were insurmountable in his eyes. The details that came between that birth and that past, _those_ … _those_ would color _everything._ He was still tongue-tied when it came to sharing those details of his past with Laura. What would she think? He didn't want her to _pity_ him, for if she did, the equality for which he'd fought so long would never come to pass. As for the Earl, hadn't it already done so? Wasn't knowledge of his past the very reason for the project he and Thomas had been working together on these past weeks? It had been alright, by him, when he'd believed only the scantest of outlines had been drawn for the man: He'd lived briefly upon those streets of Brixton and then his path had crossed with Daniel's, and that had been that.

The devil was in the details, as they say, after all.

And Daniel had chosen to share them. Why? _Why, why, why?_ As part of a gambit? To ingratiate _himself_ upon the Earl? To gain the man's _trust?_ To appear the hero? That Daniel would have used him, _his_ past, _his_ pain, for his own gain…

His hand shook as he dialed the number to the Agency.

Laura. Her lovely voice had a way of steadying him, and he needed that calming influence, desperately, at the moment.

"Remington Steele Agency, Kreb's speaking." Mildred's crisp, efficient voice brought a smile to his lips, despite the strain still on his face.

"Hello, darlin'," he greeted, warmly. At her desk in the Agency, a wide grin split the older woman's face.

"You know, Boss, if you were as prompt about coming to work as you are calling, you'd never be on Miss Holt's bad side," Mildred joked. He chuckled softly.

"Oh, I don't know about that, Mildred," he mused. "My occasional need to catch a few extra winks is only one amongst a dozen different ways I tweak Miss Holt's temper on the regular."

"Good point," she agreed, ruefully.

"Is she in?" She automatically glanced towards the door. She was expecting Laura back at any minute, but the abrupt way he'd asked told her he was troubled and she didn't want to be the one to tell him Laura was running a little behind.

"I guess that old saying is true," she stalled, pretending to sulk. He closed his eyes and drew a hand through his hair. He knew that voice. He'd inadvertently hurt her feelings and as badly as he yearned to hear Laura's lovely voice, he'd have to make some quick amends – once he knew what she was speaking of.

"What old saying is that, Mildred?"

"Out of sight, out of mind," she deadpanned. He winced, then recalled the conversation he and Laura had the evening before, as Mildred hoped he would.

"Ah, Mildred, you know better than that," he admonished softly. "If that were the case, would I be planning for you to join Laura and I in Lisbon for holiday in September? Hmmmm?" She looked up as Laura pushed open the office door and strode in. Silently, she pointed to the phone and mouthed 'It's him'. Laura held up a pair of fingers asking for a two of minutes. With a wink, Mildred flashed her the 'ok' sign.

"Portugal? We're going to Portugal? Really? You're not just pulling my leg?" Her eagerness was no act. He and Laura were like her own children, and with him halfway across the world, she not only missed him, but worried constantly for him.

"You should know better than anyone, Mildred, I _never_ kid about a holiday," he confirmed. "I've it all planned out. We'll stay at the Pousada de Lisboa, a charming, historic hotel, although don't confuse old with lack of luxury…"

A _s_ Remington recounted the suggestions that he'd made the evening prior, Laura dropped her purse in her desk drawer, then grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the office's small kitchenette. Closing her office door behind her, she'd just settled into her desk chair when the intercom buzzed.

"He's ready for you and I think something's bugging him," Mildred announced.

"Thank you, Mildred," she responded then punched line one on her phone. "Laura Holt." Her lyrical voice was infused with warmth. It was precisely what Remington had been needing to hear.

"Hello yourself, Miss Holt," he greeted, inserting a levity into his voice that he didn't feel. "How goes the detecting business today?"

"Very successfully, actually. The skip traces are done, the information delivered to the client; Baumgartner's security system malfunction has been identified and repaired; and we took on two more skip traces and an embezzlement case today," she rattled off.

"Keeping the nose to the proverbial grindstone without me there to distract you, eh?" She pursed her lips and lifted her brows.

"It certainly has its rewards. The harder I work now, the longer I can… _play_ … later." Instead of receiving a cheeky reply to her tease, she heard his long sigh, drawing a frown to her brow. It seemed Mildred was dead on the money. "Talk to me, Mr. Steele," she requested, softly. "What's wrong? Has something happened with Haven House?"

"In a manner of speaking," he answered, vaguely. He wasn't prepared to discuss what had happened between he and Daniel, not yet. Instead, he addressed what was lying heavy on his heart. "I miss you, Laura," he told her honestly, his voice strained. "I miss my life." Her heart clenched at the aching honesty of his words.

"I miss _you_ , too," she answered quietly. She held her silence, as he struggled with putting into words what was weighing heavily on him.

"Laura? What I told you last night? Did it… _change_ … how you think of me?" He stumbled over the words, making his angst all the more palpable. "Did it…" he scrubbed at his face with his hand "…Lower your estimation of me?" She tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing with concern.

"Yes, to the first, and quite the opposite, to the second," she replied honestly. When he held his troubled silence, she expounded, "It has always amazed me that you lived the childhood that you did and yet, _somehow_ , you managed not to let it steal the very best parts of you: Your humor, your optimism… your compassion. Being given a larger glimpse of what you faced on those streets? I am even more in awe." He drew in a sharp, relieved breath. Laying back on the bed, his pillowed his head on an arm and closed his eyes.

"Do you mean that, Laura? It didn't make you…" he swallowed hard, and forced the words past his lips. "…Pity… me?"

" _Pity_ you?!" she questioned, shocked that such a thought would even cross his mind. "Remington, what is going on?" Unprepared to discuss what had transpired with Daniel quite yet as he needed more time with his own thoughts first, he shook his head unseen. He needn't speak, as she easily translated the silence for what it was: He was struggling with his emotions. "When I think about you, as a little boy, after years of being shuffled from home-to-home, _choosing_ to live on the streets," she found her own emotions leaving a catch in her words, and she cleared her throat, searching for balance "…rather than living as you'd been… My heart _breaks_ for that little boy, and if I _could_ I would turn back time and do _whatever_ it takes to keep that from happening to you. But pity _you,_ the man? No!" she said, emphatically. "I _admire_ you for how far you've come, despite the odds against you." By the time she finished, he was rapidly nodding his head."Mr. Steele, what's going on?" He scrubbed at his face with both hands and released a puff of air.

"Nothing you need to be alarmed over, I assure you," he finally replied. "I'm just trying to sort out my thoughts on the matter. When I do—"

"Is it Keyes?" she interrupted. He blinked at the sudden change of course in thought the question required.

"What? No, no, it—"

"Did you see him?" she pressed.

"Not a glimpse," he assured.

"Did you hear from him, then?" She was unable to let go of the timing: Remington's darkened mood and Keyes arrival in London at some point that day.

"Not a peep. It has nothing to do with Keyes," he vowed, again. He wouldn't conceal having seen Keyes from her, would he? she wondered.

"Would you tell me if you had?" The frown that painted his face matched her own.

"Yes, of course, but—"

"I don't want you hiding it from me if he has, Mr. Steele," she lectured. "However noble you may think it is not to worry me with something I can't do anything about from here, I need to know so we can try and figure out what he's up to this time." Her voice rose and she grew more passionate the longer she spoke.

"Laura—"

"Look, I know you're angry—"

"And with good reason," he acknowledged, then attempted to protest, "But—"

"But you can't go after him on your own," she insisted.

"Damn it, Laura, I haven't seen or heard from bloody Keyes!" he yelled. In that, she finally heard the truth of what he was saying. Lifting a pair of fingers to her brow, she kneaded it.

"I'm sorry," she breathed the sincere apology. "I just don't like the idea of Keyes on the loose in London and you there alone."

"Well, I'm not overly fond of the idea myself, but nothing can be done about it," he pointed out logically, calming as well when she stopped her relentless pursuit. "I guess we can both be thankful that in a few short days I'll be on my way to Italy and I give you my word: I won't leave a trail for the bugger to follow."

"That's good to know," she approved, as she dropped her fingers from her brow to thrum them on the desk. "Now there's the little matter of when I join you in Rome. If he has the contacts to track you from Ireland to London, then you better believe before my plane lands at da Vinci-Fiumicino, he'll know I'm meeting you there."

"Mmm, I see your point. Perhaps _you_ shouldn't be traveling at all."

"And who will be travelling in my place?" For the first time on the evening a true smile lifted his lips.

"Let me handle that," he insisted. Her eyes narrowed and lips thinned.

"Mr. Steele, if you even _think_ of reviving Myrtle Groggins, I _promise_ you, it will be the longest ten days of your life… and I don't mean pleasant ones."

He swallowed hard, as an number of variations of that threat played out in his mind. If the name had been in contention – and it had – it no longer was.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Three chapters tonight, the conclusion tomorrow morning. Sorry for the delay. There was a great deal more left to this story than I had originally believed.**_


	46. Chapter 46: Undercover

Chapter 46: Undercover

Laura turned and looked back over her shoulder into the bathroom mirror, inspecting herself. If she hoped for a successful outcome from her upcoming 'audition' she needed to look the part. To that end, she'd chosen to wear the outfit Remington had assembled when she'd played the role of a hooker at a dental convention: a shimmering, black micro-mini skirt that showcased a part of knock-out legs; a low-cut, eggplant colored shirt that clung in all the right places; a lavender belt to highlight her miniscule waist; and a pair of knee high, black leather boots. As a final touch, she'd teased her hair without mercy before clipping back the front, then had applied makeup in a manner far outside of her norm: Bright pink blush with lips to match, blue shadow on her eyes, and a heavy layer of eyeliner and mascara.

Pressing her palms against the edge of the sink, her head fell forward and she stared at the gleaming white porcelain, while drawing in and releasing measured breaths.

 _You can do this, Laura. If you could get up on bar in Acapulco and do a fan dance in front of Wilson and all his banker cronies, you can do this._

But Acapulco and _that_ Laura Holt were a long time ago, when she was an entirely different person.

Of course, the dozen shots of tequila she'd quite literally knocked back – one after the other, after the other – had provided a whole lot of courage…

And overwhelming fear and insecurity had helped fuel it.

Wilson had been unhappy for months, long before he'd even moved in. If she were honest with herself, the occasionally disapproving looks directed by him, at her, had changed to open criticism the night they'd crossed _that_ line. She'd been young – so much younger than she was now… in mind, not just the passage of time.

She laughed softly to herself, as she left the bathroom, turning out the light as she exited.

And she'd been very inexperienced with only a high school hook up and stolen-moments type of affair with her professor to her credit.

She'd wanted to make love again, as soon as they'd caught their breath after the first time. He'd been… _appalled_ … by the suggestion. Passionate. Insatiable. Words that when Remington spoke them were infused with appreciation, thankfulness and… marvel… as though he were a truly fortunate man, had been said with frustration, at times… derision… by Wilson. She'd been naïve enough to believe him when he told her she expected far too much from a man – _any_ man.

She'd accepted his regimen as the norm: Sex followed by a shower, and then the routines of their day or night moved forward. She'd learned to rein herself in, matching her passion to his… no more, no less.

She'd been okay with that. Compromise, after all, was the key to successfully sharing a life and a home.

Picking up her empty mug off the coffee table, she walked into the kitchen to wash it.

Because of her easy acquiescence on the bedroom front, sex hadn't been the issue between them. Well, at least it had been far, far down their list of problems.

Once they'd moved in together, the criticisms had become more and more frequent, expanding to cover a large swath of her shortcomings. She was disorganized. She lacked the ability to cook a decent meal. She wasn't as tidy as he. She was impulsive. She was frivolous. She wasn't domestically inclined. She was reckless. She was too free-spirited. She didn't keep up appearances. She didn't respect the line between business functions and pleasurable pursuits.

She hadn't paid heed, hadn't recognized the warning signals for what they were. In her mind, much as she'd compromised, had settled for less than what she wanted in the bedroom so as not to pressure him, they'd find their way in the rest, as well. She'd work on becoming more serious, more responsible, and she'd help him learn to live a little, take risks, _have fun_. She learned how to make hospital corners on the bed and began laying out her clothes the night before. She found a small collection of restaurants offering good food for take out, and presented them with a nutritious dinner each evening. She learned how to conduct quiet, _boring_ conversations with the other bankers' wives, despite the considerable age difference. And, she began encouraging him to become less serious, less controlled all the time.

" _Call out from work and we'll spend the afternoon at the movies or go to the beach."_

" _Don't worry about the clothes in the dryer. They'll still be there when we get home."_

" _Live a little."_

She'd mistaken his decrease in complaints for adjustment. She'd believed they were doing well, that they were happy. She began daydreaming about how he'd propose, where, when. Would he get down on a knee? Would he take her out to a romantic dinner where she'd find a ring in some form of chocolate decadence? What would the ring look like? She'd started sneaking peeks at _Modern Bride_ and making a mental list of the attributes her wedding gown must have.

She had been happily, deliriously in love…

Then all those dreams of the future seemed to suddenly be at hand. Wilson invited her to join him at the banker's convention in Acapulco. She daydreamed about long, romantic strolls along the beach, of sneaking away to some private cove and making love beneath the stars. She'd been convinced a proposal was imminent, where else – _when else –_ better than in a romantic, tropical locale? She'd fought to keep her giddy nerves under wraps, while she contemplated how she would answer when he 'popped' the question. Should she feign uncertainty? Throw herself at him, shouting 'yes, yes, yes' for all nearby to hear? Or should she simply lean forward, brush her lips against his, and while peering into his eyes, quietly agree?

She hadn't paid attention to the signs, hadn't seen them for what they were.

The convention had been the opposite of all she'd imagined. Instead of romantic strolls along the beach, she found herself quite alone as Wilson attended one meeting, one lecture, after another. There was no sneaking away, no cove, no stars. There were endless nights of dull business dinners, with his banker cronies and their wives. She'd grown increasingly miserable, and he'd been… apathetic. Where hope had existed, fear had begun to take root. Why wasn't he as concerned with her happiness, as she was with him? And, hand-in-hand with that fear had arrived overwhelming insecurity. Why did he seem so removed from her? So cool towards her?

 _That_ night, their final in Mexico, the other wives had begged off when an evening at Pepe's was suggested. Laura's hopes once again soared. She and Wilson would dance the night away, she'd daydreamed. It wasn't quite the trip she'd envisioned, but if they had _this one night_ , the trip wouldn't be a total loss. She'd watched those hopes crumble as well, when the men had seated themselves around a table far from the dance floor, and even as the liquor had freely flowed they'd done nothing more than talk business and gossip about coworkers who hadn't seen fit to attend the convention.

She ordered a shot of tequila. When in Mexico, and all that… Then another, and another, before escaping to the dance floor where she danced alone, growing more-and-more miserable as each new song began, and it never occurred to Wilson he should join her. A roar from the crowd caught her attention, and she watched as people cheered when a pretty, lanky blonde climbed atop the bar to gyrate with the music. As she took in the scene, she enjoyed a few more shots, and a plan began to formulate. She knew _exactly_ how to draw Wilson's attention to her - where it should be on this last night they were on vacation – and in a most enticing way. A pair of additional shots, and she'd pushed herself up onto that bar where the last woman had received overwhelming applause.

And she'd danced…

Wilson's banker buddies had been thrilled, cheering, catcalling, a couple even standing and gyrating to the music themselves.

Even in her drunken state, she'd recognized her miscalculation. Wilson had clapped and grinned with his coworkers, his bosses, while she'd danced. He had endured, good-naturedly, the wolfish calls when she'd remove her top and tossed it to him. There had been a smile on his face, when he'd approached the bar as her dance had ended, had even offered her a hand down. As he'd guided her from the bar towards the hotel, she had smiled triumphantly. He was hers for the rest of the evening. They'd make mad, passionate love, his ardor fueled by her decadent dance, and afterwards, as their nude, sweat-dampened bodies lay tangled in the sheets, he'd reach into the nightstand, pull out a jeweler's case and, finally, propose.

She'd been… delusional. There had been no lovemaking, no proposal… he hadn't been impressed. What there had been was a cold shower to sober her up and even colder words as he lambasted her for humiliating him in front of his peers.

A week later, she came home from work to find him and his belongings gone, save for a t-shirt she'd given him that he'd loathed – _Bankers Do It with Interest –_ and a few items he no longer wore, including that infamous white belt.

Her hand paused where she was wiping the kitchen counters and her head jerked up. _The door_. She'd been so lost in memories that it took the foreign sound to register. Dropping the sponge on the sink, she crossed the living room and pulled open the industrial door.

Then laughed aloud when Monroe's eyes nearly popped out of his head at his first sight of her.

"Surprised?" she asked, as she turned back into the loft to grab the bag she'd prepared for the evening.

"I must admit it's quite the departure from your norm," he admitted.

"I can't very well appear at the Pussycat in one of my business suits, now can I?" she pointed out, logically.

"Yes, but I can't help feeling Mick shall have my head should he discover I accompanied you dressed so…" He had too many manners to insult her by finishing the sentence.

"Cheap?" she suggested, as she stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed, then secured it with a padlock. "Would it make you feel better if I told you Mick put this little ensemble together for me two years ago when I posed as a hooker at a dental convention?" she inquired as they walked towards the stairs and began their descent.

"Confounded would perhaps be a better description. Do you honestly mean to tell me he is not disturbed by you undertaking a role such as this?"

"I suppose that depends on the situation. When he came up with this little get up for the dental convention, he thought it was a great deal of fun. Of course, I was only wearing it to blend into the crowd, so to speak," she shared, as they crossed the short lobby and pushed through the doors to her building.

"And should I inquire as to Mick's opinion on the plan for this evening?" She resisted the urge to puff in frustration. Hadn't she already told him the events of the evening were to be between the two of them? Did he honestly believe she'd have changed coursed, would have divulged her intentions for the evening?

"He hasn't _exactly_ shared his opinion," she answered, elongating each word, while fingering her throat. Hopefully, with a few well placed comments and questions he wouldn't continue to pursue this particular topic. He stepped in front of her and opened the driver's side door of the Rabbit.

"Thank you," she told him, sincerely. "Your manners remind me of Mick's: They're impeccable. Did you also have a tutor?" Monroe waited to answer until he seated himself in the car, and fastened his seatbelt.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied. "My mother was insistent her sons would be gentleman and reared us as such."

"Do you come from a large family?" She looked both ways then pulled the Rabbit out into the light traffic.

"By American standards, most certainly," he confirmed. "I've three brothers, as well as two sisters."

" _Five_ siblings? I can't even begin to imagine. Are you close?"

"As close as the distance allows us, scattered about the globe as we now are…"

* * *

Laura parked the Rabbit close to the alleyway that presumably led to the backdoor of Pussycats. Monroe's honey smooth voice as he'd shared some tales of growing up in a large family had temporarily soothed her rioting nerves. Now, they all came rushing back, intensified by the adrenaline that had begun coursing through her veins as soon as she turned the Rabbit into the strip club's parking lot.

She enjoyed cases such as this where she was required to assume a role, that required creativity and quick thinking, while testing her skills. And, if she were honest, that carried with it an edge of danger. A smile played at the corners of her lips as she recalled her first adrenaline 'high,' when she and Remington had pulled off a daring art heist.

* * *

" _ **Is this the way you used to feel? Skin tingling, heart pounding, blood coursing, head spinning!"**_

 _ **"Laura, please, you're making me ill! But it's not an uncommon feeling when one first starts, but then you get used to it!"**_

* * *

Two-and-a-half years later, she still hadn't grown used to the rush. Her smile faltered as a sharp pang clenched at her tummy. If only Remington were here to share in not only the case, but the aftermath. That smile teased at her lips, again, the thought bringing with it another rush of memories.

* * *

 _ **"How would you like to hold another woman you've been waiting for?"**_

* * *

If their client hadn't interrupted, she and Remington would have moved their relationship into the bedroom, on that evening. Her blood had been positively humming, every sensation intensified. The instant his rich, woodsy scent had reached her across his living room, need had slashed through her. When they kissed, electricity sparked off the ends of her nerves. And when he touched her, she'd known only one thing: overwhelming desire. The thought of sharing a night of adrenaline fueled love making with him sent shivers racing down her spine.

If only…

"Should I presume you've stayed true to your stance that Mick should remain unaware of the plans for this evening?" Monroe questioned, drawing her from her thoughts. She inwardly grimaced. _Damn._

"As I said earlier, he's had a great deal on his mind lately," she replied. "I don't want to add to that." His cognac colored eyes studied her face when she stepped to his side, and together they began walking towards the club's entrance.

"Yes, I imagine he has. But I would think he'd wish to know, regardless of whether he may be of assistance or not. He's not unaware of the dangers that lay within those doors, and given the role you've chosen to take on, I must say, the Mick I know would have any number of objections." _Damn and double damn,_ she lamented. One of the problems of associating with thieves, conmen and smugglers – even if their current status was 'ex' – was they tended to be very perceptive.

"I'm sure he would," she replied, honestly, calling a spade for what it was.

"I see." Two words, combined with a look of concerned disappointment, and Remington's old friend fell silent.

"I take it you disapprove," she surmised.

"It is not my place to either approve or disapprove," he replied with a non-answer. "I am merely here to protect my old friend's interests." The last drew a frown from her. Coming from nearly anyone else, her temper would have been pricked by both avoidance of the question and the inference that she was in some manner Remington's property. But in the months since the Perennial case, she and Remington had enjoyed a night out with Monroe and his date of choice on several occasions. The man, much like Remington, lived by certain codes. Stopping in her tracks, she touched his arm and waited for him to face her.

"But you do disapprove," she speculated. He seemed to struggle with whether or not he should answer, as though if in doing so he might violate the trust of a friend.

"Forgive me for asking, but if your positions were reversed and it was Mick placing himself in harm's way this evening, would you wish to know?" She crossed her arm self-defensively when he drove his message home.

"Of course, I would," she replied, her chin jutting upwards.

"Is there any circumstance under which you would find it justifiable should he hide such a plan from you?" Obstinately, she held her silence. She would be infuriated, no matter the circumstance, but was not about to admit it. "I have had the honor to be called friend by Mick since we were little more than boys ourselves. In the fifteen years since, I cannot recall a single instance when he has been concerned with others' opinion of him." He shoved his hands in his pocket – in a gesture much like Remington's – uncomfortable with the confidence he felt he was about to reveal. "It is not your protection Mick desires, but your respect and for you to see him as an equal." Her back straightened in insult.

"I _do_ respect Mick!" she protested.

"The words mean little in our world," he contradicted, softly, then gestured from her to the building, "Whereas the deed says everything." He opened her mouth to set him down with a blistering retort. Finding she had none, she clamped her mouth shut again. "And should I be honest, I must ask, if it is the danger you are hiding from Mick…" he looked towards the club again "Or what you might have to reveal of yourself in this role you've devised?" At last, a question she had an answer for.

"Actually, I'm counting on you to make sure I don't have to reveal too much," she informed him. "I don't want to take off more than I'd wear to the beach during this audition."

"And should you have to perform later this evening?" he wondered, as they resumed walking towards the club's entrance.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but if it does I have a few tricks up my sleeve." _I hope_ , she silently added. She stalled as he reached in front of her and opened the club's door. "I meant to compliment you on your wardrobe. It's perfect." He had dressed like a combination of Humphrey Bogart and _Miami Vice_ : White pants, white jacket and white wingtips paired with a light blue t-shirt that she doubted anyone but she would know was silk. He'd topped off the ensemble with a white fedora, tipped slightly forward, and a modest hoop in one ear – an ear she'd never realized was pierced.

"To my great misfortune, I am familiar with the type." She lay a soft hand on his arm as the door closed behind them, cloaking them in nearly pitch dark.

"Give me just a moment, please." She felt for the side pocket of her bag, then removed the pack of gum and lipstick she'd stowed there. Sightlessly, she refreshed her lipstick then slipped a bright pink piece of Hubba Bubba gum between her lips, then returned the items to her bag. "Let's do this."

Music blared as they tugged open the blackened glass door. Colored streams of light danced around the dimmed room. To the far left stood the stage, replete with lighting and poles, and to the far right, the bar. Close to the dinner hour, patrons were few, with the afternoon crowds having departed and the evening crowds not yet arrived. Laura counted a half dozen heads, then said a quick, silent thanks. Adding an extra twitch to her hips, she plastered a bored look on her face as she and Monroe crossed the room. As he slapped a palm against the bar a couple of times to catch the bartender's attention, she spun around towards the room, and leaned against the elbows pressed to the bar behind her. Absently, she blew a large bubble, until it popped.

"What can I get you?" the bartender inquired.

"A Tom Collins and the stage manager, my man. We're here to audition." Only the slightest flicker of a brow revealed Laura was surprised by the flawless Jersey accent Monroe had slipped into. Wordlessly, the man ran his eyes over first Monroe, then her, before stepping away to mix the ordered drink.

"Gimme a minute," the man announced, as he sat the tumbler down in front of Monroe. Monroe picked up the glass and casually took a drink.

"Nice accent," she complimented in an undertone after the barkeep had walked away.

"It seemed to suit the role," he answered briefly. They maintained their poses – her leaning against her the bar, watching the stage and him with a foot propped on a rung of a barstool, sipping at his drinks – until the barkeeper returned with a large, balding and ruddy faced man.

"Danced before?" he barked, not even bothering with the niceties. Laura looked back over her shoulder at the man, then turned her head towards Monroe, who spoke for her.

"Outta a couple of clubs in da City," he provided, as she blew another bored bubble and returned her gaze to the stage, clinically analyzing the pair of dancers and filing away some of the moves that earned them whistles, catcalls… and cash.

"New York?" the manager asked.

"Only City there is, man," Monroe confirmed, as though insulted the question had ever been asked.

"What brings you to the City of Angels?"

"Opportunities, my man. A coupl'a big fish in the adult film industry are interested in makin' Amber a star," he bragged, with a grandiose sweep of his arm. The manager laughed raucously. He'd heard similar stories thousands of times over the years.

"Yeah? Then why would she want the gig here?" This time, Laura spun around to look the man to lay a lascivious look upon him.

"Because I _like attention,_ " she replied, in a sultry voice, while smoothing a hand over his, "And I _love_ sex," she dragged a single finger downward from his neck to mid-abdomen, "And I'm not getting enough of either right now." The man bent forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

"My kind of girl," he complimented, a hungry gleam in his eyes. "Let's see what you've got." She smiled wide for him.

"Oh, I've _got it,"_ she winked. With a waggle of her brows, she pushed away from the bar and strode confidently towards the stage…

She dug deep to find the Laura of old.

As the first notes of Poison's _Talk Dirty To Me_ filled the room, she drew a deep breath and stepped onto the stage.

"Your girl," the manager addressed Monroe, his eyes on Laura as she shimmied around a pole. "Strictly a dancer, or does she provide services on the side?" Monroe glanced at the stage where she was holding the pole as she arched into a backbend, then came up, circled the pole and strutted across the staged, while teasing the audience by lifting her shirt, stopping right beneath her breasts. Catcalls, 'do it, baby,' and 'take it off,' were shouted and whistled by the few audience members.

"Girl likes attention and sex, and alotta both. Whaddya think?" A sly smile spread across the manager's face.

"Is she clean?" Monroe shrugged a careless shoulder, as Laura went to her knees on stage, lay back and thrust her hips in time to the music.

"As a whistle. Tested every six months and if you ain't wearing protection you ain't getting nuttin' from her."

"She's a hot little number, ain't she?" the manager appreciated as Laura performed a series of turns across the stage, while she reached for the hem of her shirt. When she came to a stop at the corner of the stage, she peeked backed over her shoulder, winked at an audience member, then shimmied out of her blouse and with a twirl tossed it across stage. Monroe watched as an impassive observer . His old friend was a lucky man – and was wise enough to know it.

"You ain't see nuttin' yet," he agreed, then made a cutting motion across his neck.

With a nod, Laura crossed the stage and grabbed her shirt. Before she made it halfway down the steps, she was once more fully clothed and saying a silent prayer of thanks she hadn't had to go further. For good measure, she stopped at a table, flirting with the man there, then grinned as the man stuffed a five spot in the waistband of her skirt.

"Hey, what did you do that for?" the manager protested her departure from the stage.

"Rule one: The goods ain't free for show or use. Rule two: Always leave 'em wantin' more," Monroe answered, smoothly.

"You want me to buy what I ain't seen?" the manager guffawed.

"Who you kiddin'? You ain't buying nuttin'," Monroe countered, as Laura joined him at the bar. She bestowed a wide, flirtatious smile on the manager. "Dancers ain't paid. The tips they earn is what they get. Amber knows how to turn them on, then make them beg to go somewhere more private. And we all know the house gets a cut of the side action." The manager knew a pro when he spoke to one and caved.

"She dances for tips. When not on the stage, she's working the customers, keeps them drinking. House gets twenty-percent of lap dances and arrangements in the private rooms. No dating the customers outside the club. We all make money only if we keep 'em coming back. We start getting busy around seven. Have her back here at nine." He turned to address Laura directly, leaning so close, she could feel his putrid breath on her face. "Now that we've wrapped up business," he leered, while slipping a finger into the v of her shirt and sliding it ever downward, "How about you and me having a little fun?" She suppressed the urge to shudder, instead giving the man a coy smile and batting her eyes at him. She was counting on Monroe to intervene, and he didn't let her down.

"Rule three," he announced, removing the man's hand from her person, "No mixin' business and pleasure. It has a habit of messin' things up."

"Too bad," the man relented. "Nine o'clock," he ordered, then turned and left.

Monroe draped a casual arm over Laura's shoulder and directed her towards the door. Outside they came to a stop, blinking in the sudden light that flooded the parking lot.

"Let's hit a drive thru, grab something to eat, then we'll hold up in that alley way across the street so we can keep an eye out for Emma." She reached out and lay a hand on his arm. "And Monroe, thank you."

She didn't need to explain what her gratitude was for. The evening had barely begun and he'd already twice flawlessly intervened, preserving her modesty the first time, then maintaining their cover when the manager had hit on her.

"It was my pleasure," he answered. "Now, let us hope we can – I believe you say – wrap your case up this evening, so we needn't worry about an encore tomorrow evening."

She couldn't have agreed with him more – as much for her sake, as Emma's.


	47. Chapter 47: Extraction

Chapter 47: Extraction

Laura plopped her bag down on a vanity in the club's dressing room and took a seat. She and Monroe had surveilled the club for nearly two hours without spotting Emma. It had been… disheartening… to say the least, as she'd hoped to avoid resuming the role of Amber. But it was , as the saying goes, what it was, so they'd stepped back into the club an hour before she was due, to allow them the time to get the lay of the land and for her to get ready.

The outfit she'd worn for the audition simply wouldn't do for the evening ahead.

She'd resurrected her old parochial school uniform for the occasion: Plaid skirt, coupled with white stockings and a white button down that she tied beneath her breasts in a knot. A pair of scant black panties, a matching bra and a pair of black stilettos completed the look. Spritzing detangler in her hair, she worked out the knots, then used a blow dryer to leave it straight and sleek, before pulling up into a pair of match ponytails, that she tied with bright red ribbons. She removed the earlier, heavier make up, and this time applied the cosmetics to make her appear much younger. When completed, she inspected herself and gave a nod of approval.

The Catholic schoolgirl was always a hit with the men, and therefore was a no-brainer.

While it might appear to the casual observer she was nothing more than another dancer getting ready to earn her money, she was constantly studying the environment around her. She'd taken note of the back door several dancers had utilized to enjoy a quick smoke in the alley. Unlike the main lounge which featured several, hulking security guards and a handful of pimps, the dressing room appeared to be limited strictly to dancers.

With no little reluctance, she left the safety of the dressing room and made her way into the now packed club. She walked directly to Monroe, whose flabbergasted look brought a smile to her face for the second time that night.

"If Mick has not had the honor of seeing you thus, as his friend I assure you he'd be most… entranced," he complimented in an undertone.

"I plead the fifth," she answered, as she plopped another piece of gum in her mouth. "There's an open, unguarded exit in the dressing room," she shared, sotto voiced. "If Emma appears, it may be the safest way out." His eyes flickered to a point behind her.

"Now get out there and work it," he said loudly enough to be overheard, while landing a slap on Laura's ass. "Daddy has his eyes on some nicer digs." She put on a display, tugging the waist of her skirt slightly lower, and releasing an additional button on her shirt, leaving only the knot to hold it together. She blew a large bubble for show.

"You know I will, baby," she crooned. With a wiggle of her hips, she disappeared into the room, under the watchful eye of the stage manager.

Monroe watched as Laura worked the room, flirting with the patrons. A bend here, to give a man a better peek at her thighs,a caress of a shoulder there, left the men who were the recipient of her gestures eating out of her hands. Given the way a pair of the men who'd been a recipient of her attentions followed her with their eyes as she worked the room, it would be his guess that she had become the star in a fantasy or two. He couldn't help the small laugh as he imagined Mick's mix of annoyance and pride, were he here to witness her at work.

Despite the ease with which Laura worked the room, much as she had been in the dressing room, she was scouting the location, identifying possible exits should Emma appear. A trip to bathroom revealed a transom window that might be wriggled through, if no other options were available. In the lounge, itself, two emergency exits that were undoubtedly armed with an alarm were quickly discarded.

Monroe wasn't exactly an idle partner, she noted with some satisfaction. Every few minutes, he changed his position in the room, slowly working its perimeter as he kept one eye pealed on her. Identifying exits, much as she had been doing, she noted. He'd impressed her the first time he'd joined Remington and her on a case, and he was doing so again. She'd have to sing his praises to Remington… once he was done being furious with her, which she had no doubt he would be.

The palm of a large hand landed solidly on her bum… and squeezed. It took a split second to muffle her outrage, then with a smile on her lips she turned to face the offender.

"You can look for free, you naughty boy," she told the man in a seductive tone, while wagging a finger at him. "But if you want to touch, it'll cost you," she informed him as she circled him, a soft hand trailing over one shoulder… then the other.

"And are you a naughty girl?" he asked, reaching for her again. She neatly, sidestepped the arm that intended to envelop her. She put the table between them, then leaned down until she was eye-to-eye with him.

"You have no idea how naughty I can be," she purred, with a flirty lift of her brow.

"Why don't we get a room and you can show me," he suggested, reaching into his pocket and flashing a c-note.

"There are so many friendly men in here," she oozed. "Two others have already suggested the same. So I tell you what: I go on in fifteen minutes. Let's find out who is most… " she lifted her brows at him and widened her eyes for effect "…appreciative of my dancing." Over his head, her eyes zeroed in on the couple just entering the lounge. _Bingo!_ She just might escape the evening unscathed, after all.

From across the room, Monroe noted a nearly imperceptible straightening of Laura's spine, and followed her eyes to where they rested. Seeing the pair walking towards the entrance to backstage, he casually made his way back to the bar, where she joined him shortly afterwards, ordering a Coke when she reached his side.

"I see our quarry has arrived," he noted, softly.

"The timing couldn't be more perfect. It's time for me to get ready for my set, so no one will suspect a thing when I disappear for a few minutes," she confirmed, while sipping the cool soda through a straw. "Keep an eye on him," she indicated the man with the slightest nod of her head. "I'll need time with Emma. If you don't see me again in fifteen minutes, meet me at the car."

" I don't believe it is wise for me to leave you unaccompanied. Were anything to happen—"

"We don't have a choice," she cut him off. "Only dancers are allowed backstage and I need you to create a diversion should he try to come after her." When he looked prepared to argue further, she questioned, "Do you trust Mick?"

"With my very life," he replied somberly. "And he, in turn, trusts me with his. Were anything to happen—" he tried again, only for it to end in the same result: Laura interrupting.

"Mick trusts me to take care of myself. If you trust him, you need to do the same," she finished, insistently. She gave him an apologetic look. "I have to go talk to her while I have the chance." Without another word, she walked briskly through the lounge, up a short flight of stairs, and disappeared backstage.

She found Emma sitting at a makeup table at the very rear of the dressing room. The young girl swayed in her seat, as she attempted to touch up her eyeliner with a shaky hand. A quick look around confirmed that if they spoke quietly, they should be able to converse without raising any alarm bells.

"Here, let me help," Laura offered, pulling a chair over to the girl. She took the eyeliner from Emma's hand, who appeared too dazed to offer any resistance. "Emma? My name is Laura Holt," she began. "I'm a private detective with the Remington Steele Agency. Your mother hired us to find you, so she can take you home." The girl's eyes puddled with wetness even as she shook her head, adamantly, forcing Laura to draw back the hand that held the eyeliner.

"My name's Jade," she answered, as her eyes skimmed the room as though looking for someone. "You've got the wrong person."

"No, I don't," Laura replied in a tone she hoped would be soothing. "Your mother gave me pictures of you, and I happen to know, your best friend back home is named Jade." She smiled gently to soften her words. "You called Jade, very upset. She's frightened for you and wants you to come home."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she denied again, giving her head a quick shake as though to clear it. Dropping the eyeliner on the makeup table, Laura took the girl's clammy, shaky hands in hers.

"Your name is Emma Marie Sheffield," Laura recounted. "You're from Sandy City, Utah, where you've lived in the same house your entire life. Your mother and father have been married twenty-two-years. They call you their little miracle, because they were told they'd never have children, then there you were." The tears that had welled earlier now spilled freely down Emma's face. "You enjoy playing soccer and your favorite color is lavender. You have a white Pekingese named Zoey that your parents gave you on your eleventh birthday. You met Jade in the second grade and have been best friend's ever since. The two of you plan to go away to college together, then to eventually marry brothers and have a double wedding. You'll be the sisters you have always felt you are." By the time she finished, the young girl had hunkered over and was rocking herself as she silently sobbed. Laura brushed her hair back behind an ear, then bent down so she could see Emma's face. "Your parents and Jade love you so much. They want you to come home."

"They don't know what I've done," she choked out, past her tears. "They'll never look at me the same again. They'll ha—hate me."

"Oh, Emma," Laura sighed, drawing the girl into her embrace. "That's not true. Your parents love you, they could never hate you, no matter what you did. And what have you done? You loved and trusted the wrong person. We've all trusted someone we shouldn't have. I know I have." Emma shoved Laura away, shaking her head frantically.

"No, no, no," she keened, heartbrokenly. "I'm a… a… a _whore_ , a… strip… _stripper_."

"No!" Laura disagreed passionately. "You are a _survivor,_ Emma! _That's_ what you are! If your parents knew, they would understand you did what you needed to do to stay alive one more day, then another, and another, until you could find your way home. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed—" Emma froze, latching onto four words, finding hoping in them.

"My Mom and Dad don't know?" Laura stopped in midsentence.

"No, they don't. But I think you should tell—"

"No!" Emma shouted, then quieted her voice when Laura pressed a finger to her lips and shushed her while she looked around the room to see if they'd drawn attention. "They can't know," the girl repeated more quietly. For the second time on the evening, Laura's earlier conversation with Remington, the embarrassment he'd relayed, weighed heavily on her. If as an adult he still struggled with shame, how could she expect a child to overcome?

"I won't say a word if you don't want me to," she assured, prepared to offer the moon and the stars if that is what she needed to do to return the child to safety, "But you're going to need help, counseling. You've been through a very traumatic few months." She took one of Emma's hands in hers and turned the girl's arm over to examine it, finding it free of track marks. A search of her other arm revealed the same. Emma's eyes, however, were dilated, and she squinted often, trying to focus. "What are you on?"

"I had a couple drinks." She rubbed at an eye with a fisted hand, trying to put together her hazy thoughts. "He gives me pills… _to help_ ," she spit out the last two words. "A round white one with a heart on it and a big long white one. I don't know what they are." She hung her head at the admission, and the tears began dripping again.

"Wait here. I'll be only a few seconds. I need to grab my bag so we can get out of here." A Laura began to stand, Emma clutched at her arm, gripping it hard enough in her panic that Laura had no doubt she would be bruised come morning.

"I can't! I can't leave!" Through her tears, Emma looked at Laura with wide-eyed, frenzied feared. "He said if I try to take off he'll hurt me. He'll hurt my parents!" A second hand grasped Laura's arm, equally tight. "I can't!" Emma yelled, looking around the room for an escape as she shot to her feet. "If he hurts them… I can't!" As her hysteria built, Emma began to shake Laura. It took a good deal of strength for Laura to wrest her arms away from the teen that was not only almost half a foot taller than she, but outweighed her by thirty pounds.

"Shh, shhh, shhh," she shushed the girl, before they drew too much unwanted attention. "Emma, I give you my word he won't come after either you or your family. I have a friend, Detective Jarvis with the LAPD. As soon as we get you somewhere safe, I'll call him. Jarvis will throw so many charges at the man he won't see daylight for _years._ " She caught Emma's eyes with her own. "You have to trust me. We're running out of time!" Emma's eyes twitched back and forth over Laura's face, then she nodded. "Then let me just grab my bag and we'll go."

Laura scurried across the room, and yanked her bag out from beneath the table where she'd stored it, pausing when a loud din from the lounge reached the dressing room. A smiled played on her lips. The Pussycat Lounge was infamous for the brawls that often broke out, and tonight it would provide the perfect cover for their escape. She race back to Emma and grabbed the girl's hand.

"Okay, let's get out of here," she ordered, tugging the girl towards the rear exit.

Emma stumbled to a stop when Laura paused at the door. The girl nodded when Laura held a finger to her lips asking her to be silent. Slowly opening the door, Laura peered outside, looking first left, then right, exhaling when the alleyway revealed itself to be empty.

"Come on," she told Emma, grabbing the girl's hand again and pulling her through the doorway.

The right side of the alleyway was a dead end, a rusted, six foot tall chain link fence blocking their escape. She ran to the left, dragging Emma with her. She had just mentally proclaimed the rescue a success when, as they turned the corner to run the last twenty-five feet to freedom, she suddenly found herself flying through the hair and hitting the ground… hard. She yelped as shards of glass lacerated her hands, arms and the back of her thighs on landing.

"Where da ya think yer goin' with my property, bitch?" the man growled, as Emma cowered. He snatched Emma up by the back of her neck, and gave her a hard shove towards the parking lot. "Let's go!" he ordered. For months afterwards, Laura would wonder how deep Emma must have dug to find the courage to refuse.

"No!" she screamed back, yanking herself away from his grasp. "I'm going home!" The man's reflexes would have been something to admire, had he not been a brute. Emma had no more finished her words of rebellion when he shoved her against the brick wall of the building and wrapped both hands around her throat, squeezing.

Laura blinked, hard, the moment was so surreal. Anywhere else, the man could easily be mistaken for the All-American high school quarterback, with his lush hair, green eyes and boy next door good looks. It was no wonder a naïve, young girl could so easily become his prey. She scrambled to her feet, and launched herself onto his back, pounding at any flesh she could reach with her fists.

"Get off of her!" she screamed, grabbing fistful of the man's hair and pulling with all her might. "Let her go!"

For the second time in half as many minutes, the man's quick athleticism was displayed. Releasing Emma, he grasped Laura's arm, flipped her over his shoulder, then, swinging her by her arm, smashed her face first into the wall next to Emma. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Her eyes crossed in reaction to the sudden, unexpected pain and her knees threatened to buckle.

"Leave her alone," Emma screamed again. She threw herself at the man, clawing at his face and arms as he reached for her again.

With a deep inhale, Laura turned herself around and prepared to throw herself bodily between the girl and the man again, when a large, black fist belonging to one of a pair of tall burly men, took the pimp off his feet and sent him skidding across the rock and garbage strewn ground this time and she found Monroe's eyes peering intently into hers while he pressed something against her forehead. She frowned, turning her head first to assure Emma was safe, then to the pair of beefy black men who currently had her aggressor pinned against the wall. That the man was cowering in the face of much larger opposition wasn't lost on her.

"Can you make it to the car? Laura?" She gave her head a small shake, sending a wave of nausea washing over her. She swallowed, hard, when her stomach contents threatened to come up.

"Of course I can make it to the car," she answered, as though the question had been an obtuse one.

"Then might I suggest we make our way there before we draw too much unwanted attention?" She regretted the nod of her head when a sharp pain shot through it. By sheer, stubborn will alone, she stayed erect on a pair of shaky legs, and lay a hand on Emma's shoulder.

"Let's go," she advised the shaken girl quietly.

"You're bleeding," Emma pointed out, worriedly. Laura glanced down at her hands and arms.

"All in the line of duty. C'mon, let's get you to your Mom."

The trio walked away together, never looking back.


	48. Chapter 48: Coming Clean

Chapter 48: Coming Clean

Laura dragged herself through the door of the loft shortly after one in the morning. An exciting night had turned into a long one, when Monroe had decided in the wake of Remington's absence, it was his responsibility to see her well and safely home. Had his own car not been parked in the small side parking lot at the loft, she likely would have insisted there was no need, but since it was, it allowed her to accept his offer without implying she was incapable of getting herself home…

Which was questionable, if she were honest.

It had all begun when they reached the Rabbit with Emma. Automatically, she'd fished the car keys from beneath the bumper, grabbing on to said bumper when another round of dizziness threatened to send her to the ground. Pure tenacity – coupled with a healthy dose of pride – kept her upright. Without thought, she moved towards the driver's side, only to find her hand suddenly devoid of the keys. She would have argued more passionately that she was fully capable of driving if it hadn't been for the stubbornness reflected in Monroe's _**two**_ sets of eyes and the _**two**_ sets of keys he kept slightly out of reach. Still, for appearance's sake, she'd argued the point before giving up with a huff.

He'd driven the Rabbit towards the nearest Emergency room. Given the state Laura had found Emma in, a blood draw was in order to determine what drugs the pimp had been feeding her. Monroe had adamantly insisted that she be seen as well, while she'd just as adamantly had refused.

"It's _just_ a few cuts and bruises," she'd argued. "If Mick and I went to the Emergency Room every time we've been banged up a little, our insurance company would drop us like that," she snapped her fingers in emphasis.

She'd stuck to her guns, crossing her arms in front of herself and tipping her chin up mutinously, as the debate had waged on. Until, that is, he'd suggested she look into the mirror attached to the visor. While the cuts and bruises on her hands and arms, the stinging on the backs of her thigh, the double vision and her swimming head hadn't convinced her to be seen, a blackening eye, the scrapes on her face, and the large goose egg near her hairline that sported a deep gash had. She'd muttered an oath under her breath as she'd examined the still seeping wound, recognizing she'd need stitches if she didn't wish to have a prominent scar.

The visit to the Emergency room had presented its own problem: The eleven o'clock hour and Remington's phone call were quickly approaching. She'd been stitched up, but the attending physician wouldn't sign off on her release until she had not only a tetanus shot, but further testing to rule out a skull fracture or intracranial bleed. Jarvis hadn't yet arrived and, they were still awaiting the toxicology report on Amanda, not to mention the child's mother. She'd finally taken what she'd considered the coward's way out: Calling Mildred and having her contact not only their client, but Remington as well, with strict instructions to Mildred that the only thing she was to tell Mr. Steele is that Laura was wrapping up the case and would call him when she arrived home.

It was a phone call she was no more eager to make now that she was home than when she'd been sitting in that hospital, so she delayed the inevitable. She emptied her bag, tossed her laundry in the hamper, and put away the rest. She took a long hot shower, washing away the blood caking her hair, and streaking face, hands, arms and legs, wrapping herself in Remington's white button down afterwards. She worked all the knots out of her hair, then made herself a comforting cup of tea.

And, then, she ran out of ways to postpone the inevitable.

With a sigh, she sank down on the edge of the bed, then with a quickly indrawn breath stood back up again. She speculated it would be a solid week before she'd be comfortable sitting again. Picking up the phone, she dialed the number she'd memorized some time ago, then carefully eased herself down on the bed, stretching out on her side, already knowing she wouldn't sleep well that evening, as the only time she slept comfortably on her side was when Remington's long, lean body was nestled against hers.

He answered on the third ring.

"Steele, here."

"Good morning, Mr. Steele." She could no more stop the smile that lifted her lips at hearing his voice, than she could stop the sun from rising in a few brief hours.

"Ahhhh, if it's not the wayward Miss Holt. Found your way home, did you?" She scrunched her nose in acknowledgment that his good cheer wouldn't last very long.

"I did," she confirmed. "You sound like you're in a better mood this morning."

"Likely only because I haven't yet left the room," he returned. "You found your runaway, eh?"

"I did," she confirmed, securing the phone receiver between pillow and ear before lifting her hand to rub at her brow. She gasped, softly, as stabbing pain shot through her forehead. She forgotten about the bruise and lump located there.

"Is she safe and well?" he inquired, as he bent over to stack a pair of pillows against the headboard of his bed.

"As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. Monroe should be pulling up in front of LAX at any time now. Emma and our client will be on the first flight out in the morning." Unseen, he'd lifted a singular, curious brow when she'd made mention of his old mate.

"Monroe? I wasn't aware he'd branched out his enterprise to include transportation services," he joked.

"With you out-of-town, he volunteered to accompany me tonight."

It would be so easy to stop there, for she recognized Remington wouldn't likely follow up on it any further. Rather, he'd just make note on that mental tally card of his that he owed Monroe a debt. But, guilt snuck in and kicked her swiftly in the shin when Monroe's words from earlier in the evening replayed in her mind.

* * *

" _ **It is not your protection Mick desires, but your respect and for you to see him as an equal."**_

" _ **I do respect Mick!" she protested.**_

" _ **The words mean little in our world, whereas the deed says everything."**_

* * *

Openly grimacing with remorse over the turn the conversation was about to take, she took the plunge.

"Actually, when I mentioned where I thought Emma would be this evening, he was quite… determined… that he come along." Remington's brows knitted together as he stretched out on the bed, partially reclining against the pillows.

"Oh, and where might that be?" She scrunched her eyes closed, as she forced out the words.

"You know Pussycats over on LaBea…" He sat up on the bed.

"Yes," he drew out the word. She waited until he drew the inevitable conclusion. "She's fifteen!" he protested. Then it fully clicked. "It's a gentleman's only club. What role did you devise to get in the front door?" Lifting that hand again, she squeezed her eyes shut in dread, and settled for rubbing the bridge of her nose with the tip of a finger.

"I think you've already come to the logical conclusion." She rubbed a little more briskly with that finger. She hadn't intended the snippy retort, it just, well, came naturally.

"Tell me you weren't planning on going into _that place_ \- as a stripper no less - alone, Laura!" The accusation and his tone, earned though they might be, rankled, and out of habit she went on the defensive.

"Well, I didn't exactly have a suitable partner at hand, now did I?" He absorbed the blow. Regardless of whether or not she was deflecting, what she'd implied hadn't been untrue. He hadn't been there… and the thought that he hadn't been, ate at his gut. With no retort at hand to refute what she'd said, he held his tongue, the utter silence minus the hum of the line saying it all. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair." She sighed. "It's just been a long night." He trounced on the statement.

"Why? What happened?" he quickly inquired.

"Well, I didn't bare all, if that's what you're asking," she sniped.

"I wasn't," he shot back, " _Whatever_ it takes to get the job done, eh, Laura?" He didn't bother to hide his ire. As amusing as he'd once found the image of her doing that fan dance on the bar of Pepe's, the thought now of a roomful of men getting aroused by watching her parade around on a stage in her all together made his blood boil. That she hadn't given any consideration to how he might feel should it have come to that left him fisting a hand and clenching a jaw. "What happened, Laura?" he repeated, tightly. Dropping her hand from her face, she held it palm out, preparing to retreat.

"I don't think I should have brought this up."

"And I disagree," he quickly shot down her attempt to back away. She was in the wrong, and she knew it. But it _had_ been a long day, she felt like hell and was beyond simply tired.

"I don't know if now is the best time to discuss this, if you're just going to—" she pursued the idea, only for him to cut that route short.

"Lau-ra," he elongated her name, his patience quickly waning. Alright. Then maybe a bit of reasoning.

"Emma's safe. It's over. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"No," he clipped the single syllable response. " _What. Happened?"_

"Look!" she snapped, his imperious demand igniting her formidable temper. "It's late. I'm tired. You're in a bad mood—"

"Damn it, Laura, stop stalling and bloody well tell me what happened!" he yelled. She'd pushed him too far with her avoidance and she knew it. Defeated, she puffed out a breath while a pair of fingers returned to the bridge of her nose.

"You're not going to like it," she forewarned. He relaxed slightly. She was still defensive, but at least her voice no longer carried a snooty undertone. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, then with elbow propped against leg, left the splayed hand partially over his face, in preparation for what was to come.

"I'd surmised as much," he replied, forcing a calm into his voice that he didn't feel, but if she was finally going to tell him what had gone amiss, the last thing he needed to do was tweak her temper again.

"Things didn't go quite as planned," she hedged again. Frustration left him rubbing his hand over his faced again.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"Emma and her pimp arrived at the club shortly before nine. I followed her into the dressing room and left Monroe in the lounge to keep an eye on the pimp. At first everything was fine. I spoke with Emma and convinced her she could go home and her pimp wouldn't bother her further. Jarvis would see to it."

"At first," he repeated, urging her to continue. She closed her eyes and shook her head, regretting the move immediately. She didn't even attempt to quell the small moan that passed her lips, instead she simply hoped he'd interpret it as regret. Drawing in a deep breath, she continued.

"As I was grabbing my bag, I could hear a commotion in the lounge. I just wrote it off to yet another brawl at the Pussycat," she shared. "I didn't find out until…" She stuttered to a stop not wanting to introduce the trip to the hospital quite yet. "I didn't find out from Monroe until later what had happened. From what he told me, a dancer came down out of the dressing room, and held an animated conversation with Emma's pimp. He got angry, shoved her to the ground. When a customer stepped in to defend her… Well, you get the picture. There _was_ another brawl, and in the chaos Monroe lost track of the man. That's where things get… hairy."

"How so?" he asked quickly, suspecting they were getting to the meat of whatever it was she'd tried to avoid. She sighed again.

"My guess is that dancer overheard Emma and I in the dressing room and alerted her pimp, because when we turned the corner in the alleyway, he was there waiting," she finished in a rush. A sick feeling settled in his stomach.

"Go on." He lurched to his feet and began to pace. Had something happened to her and he had not been there…

"There was a brief…" she searched for a word that wouldn't leave his temper flaring "…skirmish…" she continued, then rushed to add, "Then Monroe and two of his men from the loading dock showed up and we got out of there. Emma is on the way back to Utah with her mother and when we parted, Jarvis was on his way back to the station to charge her pimp for exploitation of a minor, rape, statutory rape, aiding a runaway, battery and several other charges. He won't be out of prison for a long time, thank God."

"What aren't you telling me?" he inquired. She wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of trying to avoid relaying the night's events if that was the whole of it.

"He got the better of me, what can I say?" He swallowed hard, and nodded his head slowly as the guilt for not being there kicked him hard in the shin.

"How much… better?"

"A few scrapes and bruises, nothing that won't heal," she replied. It wasn't exactly a lie and she didn't see the point in riling him up when there was nothing he could do other than castigate himself for not being there. He slumped down on the edge of the bed, relieved.

"It would seem I owe Monroe a debt of gratitude, then, for partnering with you and arriving when he did."

"He's a good friend," she acknowledged.

"That he is, and if I wasn't able to be there to watch your back, I'm glad that he was." He blew out a long breath. "But I should have been there, Laura." In safe, not to mention familiar territory now, she fully relaxed.

"It couldn't be helped," she reassured. "What matters is I know if it had been in your power to be here, you would have been." A smile twitched at his lips.

"You know that, eh?"

"It may have taken me a while to get here, but yeah, I do," she confirmed softly.

"I love you, Laura," he told her gruffly. It may have taken him four year to first recognize that what had tied him to LA – and to her – was love and then to say the words, but he was finding each time he spoke the words, they came a little easier.

"I know. I love _you,_ too." He closed his eyes and nodded his head rapidly. He doubted he'd ever tire of hearing those words from her lips… or that hearing them would ever become less surreal. "What are your plan for the day?" He had to mentally switch gears, his mind still on what might have happened had Monroe and his men not arrived in the alley in time.

"Haven House. I expect I'll be there all day. The remaining furniture and décor are being delivered and the upholstery company should be returning the seats today, fully restored. Should all go well, I should have security detail completed and except for a few finishing touches that can be done over the weekend, we'll be well and ready to open the doors at the beginning of the week."

"Then maybe you should get on with it," she suggested with a smile in her voice.

"Trying to get rid of me, Miss Holt?" he teased. She yawned deeply.

"Just trying to get a little shut eye, Mr. Steele."

"Happy dreams. I'll call you tonight." He sent her a pair of kisses over the airwaves. "Night, night."

"Good night, Mr. Steele," she answered, dreamily.

With a good deal of reluctance, he hung up the phone. What he wanted more than anything at the moment was to be home in LA, spooned around the warmth of Laura's body as they slept. Three weeks, he reminded himself. In only three more weeks, they'd have ten glorious days together before they'd have to separate again.

Feeling slightly better, he rose. Taking his money clip off the dresser, he slipped it into his pocket then grabbed the car keys. In minutes he was striding through the hallway towards the front door.

"Oh, Harry," Daniel's genial voice came from behind him. Remington's shoulders stiffened and he came to a stop, but didn't turn around.

"Not right now, Daniel," he answered coolly, while raising a hand with palm out. "I've a long day ahead and I'm running behind as it is."

"Surely since you're already late, you can spare a few minutes."

"'Fraid not," Remington refused as he reached for the door knob.

"Don't be like this, Harry," Daniel implored as he approached the younger man. "We need to clear the air between us."

"Oh, I think the picture is crystal clear." Daniel made an exasperated face at Remington's back. In his opinion, the boy was as stubborn as they came, most especially when his temper was involved.

"Well, if now isn't a convenient time, what's say I pop 'round this," he waved a hand in the air, "Haven House of yours when you expect to be done for the day and we'll get a bite to eat together." Remington's shoulders slumped at the older man's persistence. Angry or not, he'd long grown out of adolescent impertinence. He owed the man a great deal, and Daniel knew it.

"Daniel," he protested wearily. Daniel grinned triumphantly, knowing he'd won out.

"What time do you expect to be finished?" Remington rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Five o'clock should do," he finally conceded.

Without another word, he opened the front door, strode through and shut it firmly behind him.


	49. Epilogue

Epilogue

Laura stared at the palm of her hand, oblivious to the wispy clouds floating past the window pane to her right or the glorious reds and oranges that lit the sky beyond. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she slid the Peppler wedding band onto the ring finger of her left hand. Holding up the engagement ring Remington had gifted her with, she was reminded of the vow she'd made to Mildred: It would only find its way onto her finger if it meant she had no intention of taking it off again.

She settled the ring onto her finger next to the wedding band.

Such a moment should mark a happy occasion – accepting the marriage proposal from the man you loved. Yet the woman seated next to her knew the moment could only be described, at best, as bittersweet. Mildred reached for her hand and gave it a supportive squeeze.

"Good for you, honey," she praised quietly.

With a quiet sigh, Laura leaned her forehead against the pane of the plane's window and stared sightlessly out it, her heart breaking.

 _Good for her._

She closed her eyes and pressed her hand over them, battling back the tears.

Yes, good for her.

She'd just become engaged to a man who might no longer have a future to share…


End file.
